University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

The  Theodore  H.  Koundakjian 

Collection 
of  American  Humor 


cis 

AMD.  OTHER '•STORIES. 
MARIETTA  HDLLEY 

[AUTHOR  OF  THE'JOSIAH  ALIENS  WiFE'5.''BooKSJ 
WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY  T 


AMERICAN  PUBLISHING  CO. 

HARTFORD 


MISS  RICHAEDS'  BOY, 


AND  OTHER  STORIES. 


BY 


MARIETTA  HOLLEY, 

AUTHOR  OF  XHK  JOSIAH  ALLEN'S  V/IFJIS  BOOKS. 


"WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS    BY    TRTJK 


AMERICAN  PUBLISHING  COMPANY, 
HARTFORD,    CONN. 

1883. 


COPYRIGHT  BY 

MARIETTA    HOLLEY, 
1883. 

All  rights  reserved. 


/S83 
* 


TO  HER  MEMORY 

WHOSE    LOVE 

I    CANNOT   THINK    HAS    VANISHED    WITH    HER    PRESENCE, 

THIS    LITTLE  VOLUME   IS   TENDERLY   INSCRIBED 

BY    HER    DAUGHTER, 

THE   AUTHOR. 


PREFACE. 


WHEN  publishing  a  new  book  it  is  a  custom  of  authors  to  say  a  few 
words,  perhaps  to  bespeak  the  gentle  good  will  of  the  public  to  the  new 
venture  they  are  sending  out  in  hope. 

In  publishing  these  little  stories  of  country  life,  although  I  am 
well  aware  their  merit  is  not  great,  yet  the  cordial  friendliness,  and  too 
generous  appreciation  which  met  my  former  books,  makes  me  hope  that 
same  public  will  deal  gently  with  the  faults  of  this. 

As  in  my  former  books,  the  characters  are  all  from  the  land  of  No- 
where, a  realm  in  which  I  delight. 

It  was  suggested  to  me  by  one  whose  interest  in  the  book  is  only 
next  to  my  own,  that  as  the  belief  was  quite  universal  that  "Josiah 
Allen's  Wife's"  books  were  written  by  a  member  of  the  stronger  sex,  it 
would  be  advisable  to  have  my  portrait  appear  in  this  volume.  The  belief 
was  of  course  very  flattering  to  me,  but  perhaps  it  is  only  right  to  hereby 
resign  the  "  burden  of  an  honor  unto  which  I  was  not  born." 

In  conclusion,  I  wish  to  thank  again  the  kind  friends  seen  and  unseen 
whose  earnest  words  of  praise  and  encouragement  have  been  the  pleasantest 
reward  of  authorship. 

MARIETTA   HOLLEY, 

Adams,  N.    Y. 


CONTENTS. 


Miss  RICHARDS'  BOY,  17 

•  i  / 

THE  OUTCAST, 73 

THE  DESERTED  WIVES,         ....  37 

MRS.  WIXGATE'S  CHARITY,            .  10  7 

FAITH  WINSLOW,          ....  129 

TRUE  UNTO  DEATH,     ...                 .  149 

CECIL  VAIL, ^ 

THE  DORCAS  SOCIETY,            ...  221 

BELINDA,  CAROLINE,  AND  HENRIETTA.            ...  241 

LITTLE  CHRISTIE'S  WILL, 261 

JOHN'S  WIFE,       ......  283 

THE  PLAIN  Miss  PAGE,         .                           .  299 

Miss  HIGGINS'  MAN,    ...                  .  317 

KATE'S  WEDDING  GIFT 327 

KITTY    Ross,  o^r 

•  O4O 

A  WOMAN'S  HEART, 365 

KATY  AVENAL,    .......  337 

(ix) 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGE. 

1.  PORTRAIT  OF  THE  AUTHOR,     .......     Frontispiece. 

2.  ILLUMINATED  TITLE  PAGE,      .......  1 

3.  THE  "  CORSET  "  MAKES  TROUBLE,     .           .           .    (Full  Page,)            .  15 

4.  Miss  RICHARDS'  BOY  (Title),    .            .                                   ...  17 

5.  PRISCILLA  ANN  COBB,  ........  19 

6.  HE  STOPPED  THE  WAGON,      .......  21 

7.  JEREMIAH  CAPELIN,      ........  22 

8.  JANE  TOMPKINS,            ........  27 

9.  THE  "  CORSET,"            ........  28 

10.  CREVELAND  HALL,       ........  31 

11.  CLAUDE  RICHARDS,       .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .34 

12.  "I   HAVE   BEEN  A  WRETCH,"   .......  36 

13.  AT  THE  HALL,  .........  40 

14.  THE  REFUSAL,   .........  44 

15.  THE  DREAM,      .........  46 

16.  AND  so  HE  DISAPPEARED,      .......  51 

17.  I  FELT  MYSELF  LIFTED  UP,  .......  53 

18.  WE  STOOD  IN  THE  SWEET  MOONLIGHT,        .....  63 

19.  TAIL  PIECE,       .......  71 

20.  "WHAT  DO  You  MEAN?"       ....     (Full  Page,)  72 

21.  THE  OUTCAST  (Title),  ...  73 

22.  THE  OUTCAST,   .....  77 

23.  STRANGE  COMPANIONS,            ...                                 .  78 

24.  "LOOK  AT  YOUR  WORK,"       ...                       ...  80 

25.  HE  HEARD  A  LAD  SINGING,    ...  81 

26.  THE  GOOD  BOOK,          ....                       ...  85 

(xi) 


xii  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

27.  THE  IJi—  ;  i: (Full  Page,)           .  86 

28.  THE  DESERTED  WIVES  (Title),           ......  87 

29.  "DAKK, 92 

80.  "Hi:u  KL'FAXT."          ........  93 

81.  MRS.  FOSTER  CAUGHT  HER  TO  HER  BREAST,          ....  94 

82.  MRS.  FOSTER  WAS  NOT  DEAD,            ......  99 

33.  THE  SEARCH,     .                                                          ....  100 

34.  TAIL  PIECE,       .........  104 

85.  MABEL  WING  ATE,         .....    (Full  Page,)           .  106 

86.  MRS.  WINGATE'S  CHARITY,      .......  107 

87.  GIVING  HIM  POINTS,    .           .           .           .           .           .            .  117 

88.  TOM,        .                                            119 

39.  So  OUT  IN  THE  COLD  WENT  TOM,    ....  122 

40.  THE  LITTLE  SUFFERER,          .....  125 

41.  TAIL  PIECE, .  m 

42.  FAITH  WINSLOW,                                 .            .            .     (Full  Page,)            .  128 
4::.     FAITH  WINSLOW  (Title),          .....  129 

44.    THE  INQUIRY,    .......  134 

r>      "  Vi:s,  I  AM  TIRED,  JOHN,"    ....  139 

46.  THE  OLD  SONG, 

144 

47.  TAIL  PIECE,      .                                147 

'  II i:  is  COMING!"                              .        ».     (Full  Page),  148 

49.  TRUE  UNTO  DEATH  (Title),      ...  149 

50.  "Mrsi:  MY  LORD  HAMMOND,"  153 

•''•     Mv  '"'"•                                •           •                      \-       ".                      '.  156 

\\  VTCHIXO  AND  WAITING,       «...  162 

OH.  RICHARD!  RICHARD!"    .            .  167 

54.  TA, ,,,-„,,,,.  .•-..-•-.  169 

A  !'><>,)v  ,x  THE  SNOW,  .  .  .  (FullPage)  170 

(  MII-  VAIL  (Title), m 

Oui  s 1 1. 1-  MOTHER,  .  .  t 

58.  WATCIHNG  THE  SUNSET,          .  17^ 

59.  TELLING  STORIES,         . 
IbML  DAGGETT, 

81.  Tm.  "  SWEET  STORY  OF  OLD," 

82.  PUTTIN'  HER  OUT, 


ILLUSTRATIONS.  xiii 

PAGE. 

63.  HAPPY  MOMENTS,          .  .           .           .           .            .           .            .185 

64.  TIPPECANOE,       .........        186 

65.  ASPIRE  DINOMAN,          ........        187 

66.  THE  MANUSCRIPTS,        ........        190 

67.  POLLY  ANN  HAWKINS,  .  .            .           .            .           .            .            .191 

68.  I  COME  A  PURPOSE,      .  .            .           .            .            .            .            .192 

69.  A  FRIENDLY  ACT,         ........        195 

70.  GIVING  UP  His  SEAT,  ........        198 

71.  TIP'S  MISFORTUNE,        ........        203 

72.  BAD  NEWS,         .........        207 

73.  THE  MEETING,  .  .                       ....        210 

74.  THE  AFFRAY,     ....  ....        211 

75.  NORA  VAIL  CHESTER,  .  .            .            .            .            .           .            .217 

76.  TAIL-PIECE,         .........        218 

77.  "HE  WAITED  TO  SEE  No  MORE,"    .  .     (Full  Page),           .           .        220 

78.  THE  DORCAS  SOCIETY  (Title),  .  .           .           .           .           .            .221 

79.  "  THAT  FELLER,"         ....  ...        224 

80.  PAUL'S  ANTICIPATION,  ........        227 

81.  THE  LETTER  "M.,"     ........        228 

82.  A  FAVORABLE  CONCLUSION,     .......        234 

83.  TAIL-PIECE,         .......  .238 

84.  PERPLEXING  QUESTIONS,          .  .           .    (Full  Page),                      .        240 

85.  BELINDA,  CAROLINE,  AND  HENRIETTA  (Title),          .  .           .           .241 

86.  BELINDA  READS  THE  LETTER,  ......        247 

87.  "!T  DON'T  LOOK  WELL,"        .  ....        250 

88.  HOPE  AT  THE  ORGAN,  ........        25:* 

89.  THE  THREE  DRABBLED  DAMSELS,      .  ....        257 

90.  TAIL-PIECE,         ....  ....        258 

91.  MY  HEART  WAS  EN  MY  THROAT,        .  .     (Full  Page),           .           .        260 

92.  LITTLE  CHRISTIE'S  WILL  (Title),        ...  261 

93.  "TAKE  MY  SEAT,  COLONEL,".  .                                                      263 

94.  JUDITH, 265 

95.  LITTLE  CHRISTIE,          ........        266 

96.  I  STOOD  LOOKING  DOWN  UPON  HEII,  .....        268 

97.  UNDER  THE  PALM  TREE,         .  .....        270 

98.  "On!  WHAT  A  TIME  THAT  WAS,"       ......        272 


xiv  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

PAGE. 

99.  Tin.  PKOMI-K.    .  .  276 

100.  TAIL  i-iLii:. 

101.  I'ut  DKNCK  WINFIELD,  .  .     (Full  Page),  .  .        282 

102.  JOHN'S  WIFE  (Title),      . 

103.  COLD  COMFORT,  .  ......        284 

104.  JOHN'S  WIFE,     .  •  289 

105.  '  I'VE  Tt  MMED  TO  FIND  You,"  294 

106.  TAIL-PIECE,         ...  .  •  296 
KI?.  I'M  AND  "MiT  PADIE,"         ...           .     (Full  Page),                       .        298 

108.  PLAIN  Miss  PAGE  (Title),  .  ...        299 

109.  PULINK,  .  ....  .  •  .301 

110.  THE  HOVEL,       ....  .  .  .  .  .302 

111.  THE  BURIAL .  .  .304 

112.  AND  THE  Low  SWEET  WORDS,          .  .  .          ..  .305 

113.  THE  PROPOSAL,  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .313 

114.  TAIL-PIECE,         .  .  .  .  .  .  ...  .314 

115.  THE  MEETING,  .  .  .     (Full  Page),  .  .        316 

116.  Miss  HIGGINS'  MAN  (Title),      .......        317 

117.  -'O-  -H!" .319 

118.  HE  HELPED  HIMSELF  GENEROUSLY,  .  .....        321 

119.  AFTER  THE  RUNAWAY,  .......        324 

120.  TAIL-PIECE,        .........        325 

101.  KATE'S  WEDDING  GIFT,  .  .  .     (Full  Page),  .  .        326 

100.  KATE'S  WEDDING  GIFT  (Title),  ......        327 

'  IT  MAKES  ME  FEEL  BAD,  CATHERINE,"    .  .  .  .  .328 

101.  NATHAN'S  APPROACH,   .  .  .  .  .  ...  .336 

125.  TAIL-PIECE,        .  ......        342 

I  or,.  KITTY  Ross,       .  ...    (Full  Page),  .  .344 

107  KITTY  Ross  (Title),       .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .        355 

128.  THE  BLAZING  STAR,     ....  346 

129.  Msa  Ross 347 

130.  THE  HAPPY  FAMILY, 352 

131.  THK  RUNAWAY,  ....  357 

132.  A  SENSATION,     ...  361 
138.  TAIL-PIECE,        ...                                                                               362 
134.  BEATIUCE  MANNING,     .                                      (Full  Page)j                               364 


ILLU8TRATI<>\*.  xv 

PAGE. 

135.  A  WOMAN'S  HEART  (Title),      .  .  365 

136.  GRACE  AND  THE  CHII.HKKX,    .  .  368 

137.  TELLING  HER  FORTUNE,  .            .  376 
133.  PLAIN  TALK,      ,                                                                                             .380 

139.  "  LET  ME  Go  WITH  You,  "     .  ....  383 

140.  TAIL-FIKCK,         .  ...  385 

141.  "THERE  SHE  is,"  ....     (FullPagc),            .            .  386 

142.  KATY  AVENAL  (Title),  .  .....  387 

143.  ROB, 389 

144.  "A  RUNNIN'  DOWN,"   ........  392 

145.  MRS.  WESCOTT,  .  .                                    .....  395 

146.  THE  FIRST  VISIT,          ........  397 

147.  PAST  GLORIES,   .........  402 

148.  TAIL-PIECE,  410 


"COKSKT"     MAKES  TROUBLE. 


WAS  only  seventeen,  when  the  death  of  my 
guardian  left  me  quite  homeless.  I  was  an 
orphan,  confided  to  his  care,  in  my  babyhood, 
by  my  father,  who  had  been  a  college  chum  and 
close  friend.  And  while  my  guardian  lived  I 
never  knew  the  want  of  the  fatherly  protection  I  had  lost  so  early,  or 
the  mother-love  I  had  never  known.  He  was  very  wealthy,  cultured,  and 
refined,  and  he  surrounded  my  young  life  with  beauty  and  luxury. 
And  so,  when,  at  his  death,  which  occurred  very  suddenly,  his  property 
all  passed  to  a  distant,  and,  as  I  fancied,  in  my  disappointment,  a 
rather  stony-hearted  relative,  it  was  a  great  shock  to  me.  It  was  like 
walking,  by  one  step,  from  a  flowering,  blooming  garden  into  a  desert. 

I  think,  indeed  I  know,  that  he  meant  to  have  made  some  provision 
for  my  future.  The  lawyer  said  so;  said  he  had  often  spoken  of  it. 
He  intended  to  will  half  of  his  property  to  me,  but  the  papers  were  not 
made  out.  And  so,  friendless  and  poor,  I  was  left  in  the  world  to  fight 
its  battles  alone.  Only  seventeen !  Young  shoulders  to  bear  the 
burdens  of  care  and  labor  that  so  suddenly  fell  upon  them. 

2  (IT) 


lg  MISS  RICHARDS'  BOY. 

\\V  had  lived  in  a  very  secluded  manner,  and  I  had  very  few 
acquaintances,  but  I  had  read  many  novels,  and  was  as  romantic  and 
sentimental  as  their  teachings  and  my  solitary,  dreamy  life  could  make 
me.  I  had  never  been  to  school,  and  so  I  had  not  even  school-girl 
friendships  to  help  sustain  me  in  my  loneliness.  I  had  had  a  governess 
until  the  last  year,  a  kind  woman,  to  whom  I  had  become  much 
attached;  and,  in  my  first  desolation  and  dismay,  I  thought  of  her  as  a 
possible  refuge.  But  after-thought  told  me  she  was  a  paid  dependent, 
now  in  another  family,  and  I  could  not  possibly  go  to  her. 

What  was  I  to  do  ?  This  hard  question,  that  so  many  have 
confronted,  stared  me  in  the  face  the  last  thing  at  night  and  the  first  in 
the  morning.  I  was  not  fitted  for  teacher  in  any  high  department.  I 
was  to  have  gone  away  to  school,  to  remain  until  I  graduated,  at  one  of 
the  first  young  ladies'  seminaries  in  the  country.  My  guardian  had 
written  to  the  principal  the  day  he  was  taken  sick ;  but  that  was  all 
past  now.  My  education,  as  far  as  it  had  gone,  was  good,  for  my 
governess  was  thorough  and  conscientious.  But  I  knew,  incomplete  as 
it  was,  and  with  my  youth  and  inexperience,  I  could  not  compete  with 
the  experienced,  successful  teachers  who  were  so  readily  to  be  found. 
I  could  play  the  piano  well  enough  for  an  amateur,  but  not  well  enough 
to  teach  others.  And  as  for  the  last  resort  of  destitute  ladyhood,  fine 
sewing,  I  said  to  myself,  one  day,  as  I  sat  despairingly  looking  into  the 
future,  I  could  as  soon  engineer  a  railroad  as  to  make  a  fine  shirt. 

But  by  some  subtle  connection  of  thought  between  my  last 
despairing  idea  and  a  memory  of  the  past,  the  recollection  of  my  nurse 
came  to  me,  the  woman  who  had  been  like  a  mother  to  me  till  I  was 
ten  years  old.  I  thought  how  kindly  she  would  look  up  at  me  from  her 
sewing  when  I  was  good,  and  how  she  would  occasionally  tap  me  on  the 
head  with  her  silver-top  thimble,  when  I  was  inclined  to  be  noisy  and 
rude.  But,  after  all,  how  she  loved  me ;  and  I  remembered  that  she 
told  me,  when  she  went  away,  "if  ever  in  want  of  a  friend,  do  not  forget 
Priscilla  Ann  Cobb."  Surely,  that  time  had  come. 


MISS  RICHARDS'  BOY. 


19 


I  knew,  at  the  time  she  left  here,  that  a  small  property  had  fallen 


to  her  from  a  dis- 
she  had  gone  to 
farm.  She  was  a 
entertained  at  that 
sion  to  men.  True, 
brought  changes ; 
married,  and  for- 
at  all  events,  it 
to  write  to  her, 
would  receive  me, 
what  to  do.  So  I 
of  my  lonely,  for- 
ing  her  if  she  could 


TRISCILLA  ANN   COBB. 


taut  relative,  and 
live  on  her  own 
maiden  lady,  who 
time  a  strong  aver- 
years  might  have 
she  might  have 
gotten  me.  But, 
would  do  no  harm 
and  maybe  she 
until  I  could  think 
wrote,  telling  her 
lorn  state,  and  ask- 
receive  me  for  a 


short  time,  and  if  there  was  any  employment  near  her  that  I  could  get,, 
for  I  should  be  unhappy  if  I  were  dependent  upon  any  one,  even  my 
kind  old  nurse. 

In  due  time  the  answer  came.  The  letter  was  long,  and  although 
the  spelling  was  bad,  the  spirit  was  good;  kindness  breathed  through 
every  word.  She  answered  me  "that  the  house  and  heart  of  P.  A.  Cobb 
was  open  and  waitin'  for  me.  It  would  be  the  happiest  day  she  had 
spent  for  years,  when  she  see  the  little  girl  that  had  growed  into  her 
heart  so  tight  a  comin'  through  her  front  gate.  She  thought  some 
persons  might  have  looked  out  for  me  a  little  better,  and,  out  of  such  a 
big  property,  laid  up  a  little  for  one  they  had  always  carried  the  idea 
they  thought  the  world  of.  Howsumever,  she  hadn't  any  reflections  to 
cast  upon  anybody  here,  or  in  any  other  world  whatsumever.  My  guardian 
was  a  man  who  had  his  properties,  and  was  agreeabler  than  most  men ; 
and,  thank  her  fortin',  she  wasn't  tied  to  none  of  'em  whatsumever,  and 
hadn't  no  man  about  her  premises  to  say  to  her, 4  Why  do  ye  so  ? '  No 
man  to  hender  her  from  sayin'  what  she  did  say,  and  should  say,  that  I 


0Q  MISS  RICHARDS'  BOY. 

\v;i>  welcome,  and  more'n  welcome,  to  a  home  with  her,  as  long  as  I 
would  make  her  as  happy  as  a  queen  on  her  throne  by  acceptin'  of  it. 
And  as  for  work,  if  it  would  make  me  any  happier,  though  I'd  no  need 
t.>  wet  my  fingers  in  dish-water  if  I  didn't  want  to,  there  was  the 
deestrict  school.  The  teacher  had  jest  died  off,  and  they  was  in  a  peck 
of  troubles  who  to  get  to  fill  her  place.  The  trustee,  Mr.  Capelin,  had 
been  to  her  time  and  agin,  askin'  her  about  it,  and  she  had  told  him 
plain  right  out  and  out,  that  she  didn't  keep  school-moms  by  her,  and 
couldn't  furnish  them  on  order,  thinkin'  he  had  trailed  there  enough, 
and  he  a  widower,  and  it  might  make  talk.  Though,  as  for  any 
encouragement  she  had  gin  him,  folks  knew  too  well  her  feelins  on  the 
subject  to  think  that  she  would  encourage  him  to  come  there  only  on 
business,  and  she  a  not  wantin'  to  misuse  him  right  out  and  out,  on  his 
wife's  account,  who  was  a  Christian,  if  there  ever  was  one,  and  he  good 
to  her  in  her  last  sickness,  she  would  say  it  of  him,  though  men  was 
not  to  be  depended  on,  and  she  despised  the  hull  set  on  'em. 

"  The  school-mom  got  five  dollars  a  week,  and  boarded  round.  But 
there  would  be  no  boardin'  round  for  me,  not  if  she  knowed  herself. 
The  school-house  was  only  a  little  ways  from  her  house,  and  her  house 
was  my  home  as  long  as  I  would  consent  to  stay  with  her,  and  it  was 
nobody's  business  only  jest  hern.  There  was  no  man,  thank  heaven,  a 
snoopin'  round  to  say  to  her, i  Why  do  ye  so?'  The  school  was  small, 
and  I  would  have  no  trouble  with  none  of  'em,  unless  it  was  Miss 
Richards'es  boy,  and  a  better  dispositioned  boy,  and  a  better  hearted 
boy  never  lived  than  he  was;  that  she  would  contend  for.  let  anybody 
run  him  down  that  was  a  mind  to.  And  he  probably  wouldn't  go  to  tlie 
deestrict  school  much  more,  bein'  promised  to  be  sent  through  college 
by  them  that  was  able  to  do  so." 

And  the  letter  ended  as  it  begun,  with  warm  and  lengthy  expres- 
sions of  affectionate  interest  in  my  welfare,  and  welcome  to  her  home. 

One  week  from  the  day  I  received  her  letter,  I  was  on  my  way  to 


IfISS  RICHARDS'  EOT. 


21 


Cold  Creek  Station,  where  I  left  the  cars  at  about  eleven  in  the  morning, 
and  the  train  whizzing  away,  left  me  on  the  platform  alone. 

How  quiet  everything  looked !  It  seemed  as  if  the  world  had 
stopped  to  rest.  Far  off,  in  the  green  fields,  I  could  see  men  at  work, 
and  the  road  stretched  away  like  a  dusty  white  ribbon,  and  lost  itself  in 
the  green  woodland.  The  station-master  stood  by  the  gate,  talking  with 
a  good-looking,  middle-aged  man,  who  had  stopped  his  wagon  there. 

I  ventured  to  ask  the  official  the 
way  to  Miss  Cobb's,  and  the  distance. 
He  said  it  was  "  only  two  miles, 


right  ahead."  I  thought  I 
could  walk  that  distance  quite 
easily,  and  set  out.  All  the 
while  I  was  speaking  to  the 
station-master,  the  good-look- 
ing, gray-whiskered  man  in 
the  wagon  eyed  me  closely, 
with  a  pair  of  keen,  good-humored  eyes.  But  I  had  hardly  got  out 
into  the  road,  and  started  on  my  walk,  than  he  overtook  me.  He 
stopped  the  wagon. 


HE   STOPPED   THE   WAGON. 


MISS  RICHARDS'  SOY, 

"  Are  you  the  little  gal  Miss  Cobb  has  been  expectin'  of  ? " 
"Yes,  sir." 

"  So  I  thought.  Now,  I  am  goin'  a  mile  and  over,  right  on  your 
way,  and  I  will  take  you  along  as  fur  as  I  go,  an'  welcome,  if  you  say 
MS  much." 

I  accepted  his  invitation  thankfully,  and  he  reached  down  his 
strong  brown  hand,  and  helped  me  up  to  the  seat  beside  him. 

"  Goin'  to  teach  the  deestrict  school,  so  Miss  Cobb  told  me,"  said 
my  new  companion,  after  I  was  comfortably  seated. 

"  Yes,  sir,  if  I  am  fortunate  enough  to  please  the  trustee." 

"He'd  be   a   darnation  fool  if  he   wasn't  pleased   with  you.     A 

consummit  fool,  I  say,  which   he   haint  in  the   aforesaid   matter  jest 

mentioned,  for   he  likes   your  looks  first-rate  —  liked  you  the  minute 

he  set  his  eyes  on  you.     Pretty  as  a  snow-drop,  he  thought  you  was. 

ought    to    say,    I    am 
the  present   honor  of 
with     you,    Jeremiah 
vice,  mom." 
pressed    my   pleasure 
thanked   him   for  his 
"  Your    name    is 
from    a     female  —  in 
herself." 
ilton." 
Well,  Miss  Hamilton, 


Which,  perhaps  I 
the  trustee,  who  has 
set  tin'  in  the  buggy 
Capelin,  at  your  ser- 

Of   course   I  ex- 
at  meeting  him,  and 
kind  opinion. 
Hamilton,     I     heard 
fact,  from  Miss  Cobb 

"Yes.  EvaHam- 

"Yes,    jest    so. 

I   hope    you'll    make  yourself    to    hum 

amongst  us.     Goin'  to  have  a  good  place  to  stay  to.     A  smart,  likely, 
forehanded  woman  Miss  Cobb  is." 

"Yes,  and  one  of  the  kindest,  truest   hearts  in  the  world,"    said 
I,  warmly. 

"Fact,"  said  he.      "True  as  the  book  of   Paul.      Has   her  ways, 
though." 


JEREMIAH   CAPELIN. 


RICHARDS'  BOY.  23 

I  told  him  "  most  people  had."  For  I  could  not  endure  even  an 
insinuated  blame  against  "  Auntie,"  as  I  always  used  to  call  her. 

"  True  agin  ;  true  as  John,  or  any  other  'postle  you'll  bring  up.  If 
a  board  don't  tip  up  one  end,  it  will  tother.  Everybody  has  their  ways  ; 
some  different;  no  two  like  the  other  one.  Wimmin  are  curious  for 
'em ;  curious  set  wimmin  be,  as  I  ever  seen.  Some  hate  the  men  like 
all  posess,  some  like  'em  too  well,  some  will  run  at  'em,  some  away 
from  'em,  some  will  run  one  way,  some  another,  jest  as  their  way  is. 
She  seems  to  be  sot  aginst  'em,  kinder  shyin'  off  all  the  time,  dretful 
oflish  and  balky  with  'em ;  her  way,  curious.  I  persume  men  wouldn't 
hurt  her  for  a  dollar.  I  wouldn't,  not  for  a  silver  dollar,"  he  added, 
reflectively. 

He  stopped  a  minute,  and  leaned  over  the  dash-board,  and  dis- 
lodged a  fly  from  the  horse's  back  with  his  whip,  and  adjured  him 
at  the  same  time  to  "  get  up,  and  not  go  to  sleep." 

I  made  some  remark  about  the  country  through  which  we  were 
passing.  He  responded  pleasantly.  But  then,  after  a  brief  silence, 
he  began  again  on  the  subject  which  seemed  to  him  of  most  interest. 

"  No ;  not  for  a  silver  dollar,  I  wouldn't  hurt  her.  My  late  wife 
sot  a  good  deal  by  Miss  Cobb.  I  lost  my  companion  four  years  ago 
this  comin'  fall,"  said  he,  in  a  confidential  tone.  "  Lost  her  with  the 
tyfus.  Information  set  in ;  no  savin'  of  her.  Miss  Cobb  watched  over 
her  like  a  sister ;  tried  her  best  to  pull  her  through ;  couldn't  do  it, 
though.  Good  woman,  never  blamed  her  a  mite ;  'twan't  her  doin's ; 
'twas  the  tyfus.  Had  to  give  her  up.  It  came  tough  on  me,  but  I 
couldn't  help  myself.  That  is  four  years  ago,  and  I  haint  never  seen 
but  one  woman  sense  that  I  would  love  to  see  set  across  the  table 
from  me,  in  Miss  Capelin's  chair.  Not  much  chance  of  seein'  of  her 
there,  as  I  can  see  at  the  present  time/  Get  up,  Jim !  Are  you  goin' 
to  sleep,  or  are  you  not  ? " 

Jim,  thus  adjured,  manifested   his  wakefulness   by  going  a  little 


.,4  MISS  RICHARDS'  EOT. 

faster;  and  very  soon  my  companion,  pointing  to  a  pretty  white  cottage 

before  us,  said : 

"  There  is  my  place,  Miss  Hamilton." 

I  told  him  "I  thought  it  was  a  very  pretty,  cozy  place." 

"  Yes.  House  as  good  as  new,  and  a  good  farm  I  have  got  here, 
as  there  is  in  the  country  —  seventy-four  acres,  all  paid  for,  and  not 
a  chick  nor  a  child  in  the  world.  Curious,  haint  it  ?  — and  the  world 
full  of  wimmen  and  children." 

We  had  now  got  in  front  of  the  white  cottage,  and  I  expected 
Mr.  Capelin  would  stop ;  but  as  I  saw  we  were  passing  by,  I  said  : 

"  I  will  get  out  here,  sir,  if  this  is  where  you  stop." 

"  No ;  set  still.  The  horse  seems  determined  to  go  on.  Let  him 
go.  I  generally  let  him  have  his  way ;  he  is  a  well-meanin'  horse." 

I  told  him  I  had  just  as  soon  walk  the  rest  of  the  way. 

"No;  set  still.  Jim  seems  determined  to  go  on.  Let  him  have 
his  way." 

He  carried  the  idea  that  it  was  nothing  to  him  at  all,  but  only 
a  piece  of  dogged  obstinacy  and  self-will  on  the  part  of  the  horse. 

The  country  was  lovely  through  which  we  were  passing.  On  one 
side  of  the  road  were  pleasant  woods.  So  grand  and  stately  looked 
all  the  trees,  and  in  such  extremely  good  order,  that  I  could  not  help 
speaking  admiringly  of  them. 

"  Yes,"  returned  Mr.  Capelin.  "  Creveland  Park  is  as  handsome 
a  stretch  of  woods  as  you'll  find  in  these  parts.  These  woods,  clean 
and  handsome  as  a  picter,  runs  clear  up  to  Creveland  Hall,  two  good 
miles  from  here,  or  a  mile  and  a  half,  plumb.  Can't  see  it  from  here," 
said  he,  stretching  up  his  neck  in  a  vain  endeavor  to  peer  over  the 
lofty  tree-tops.  "Handsome  old  house,  too,  as  there  is  in  the  coun- 
try. Get  up,  Jim ;  or,  if  you  want  to  go  to  sleep,  lay  down  to  it." 

Jim  tried  to  assure  his  master  that  he  did  not  want  to  go  to 
sleep,  by  taking  a  little  faster  gait,  as  I  asked  him,  with  interest : 


MISS  RICHARDS'  BOY.  25 

"  Is  the  family  living  at  the  Hall  ?  " 

"  Wall,  no,  not  exactly.  The  housekeeper  and  one  or  two  of  the 
servants  stay  there  all  the  time.  The  present  owner,  Hugh  Creve- 
land,  is  a  bachelder  —  a  wildish  sort  of  a  chap ;  used  to  be  awful  for 
carryin's  on,  drinkin',  and  cuttin'  up  jinerally.  Kinder  coolin'  down, 
they  say.  Time,  too,  I  should  think ;  must  be  in  the  neighborhood 
of  forty.  Can't  be  more  than  five  years  younger  than  I  be,  and  I  am 
in  the  neighborhood  of  forty-five.  I  haint  said  I  was  forty-five,  but 
in  the  neighborhood  of  it." 

But  the  exact  age  of  the  worthy  Mr.  Capelin  did  not  interest  me 
so  much  as  the  subject  we  had  been  discussing.  I  had  read  a  great 
many  novels,  and  the  romantic  heroes  who  had  been  most  fascinating 
to  me  always  were  very  mature  of  age,  with  mysteries  in  their  past 
lives.  They  lived  in  old  baronial  halls.  They  had  all  been  very  wild 
in  their  youth,  and  the  love  of  some  young  woman,  some  friendless 
orphan,  usually,  had  won  them  from  their  evil  ways,  and  saved  them. 
I  was  only  seventeen,  and  had  read  a  great  many  novels. 

"  Is  this  Mr.  Creveland  handsome  ? " 

"Yes;  handsome  as  a  picter;  or — that  is,  he  used  to  be.  I 
haint  seen  him  for  yeaA.  How  his  big,  black  eyes  used  to  flash  and 
snap  in  his  head.  Curly  black  hair,  head  right  up,  afraid  o'  nobody, 
wimmen  specially.  Never  was  afraid  of  wimmen  a  mite.  Curious  he 
haint  never  married.  Some  day  he  is  goin'  to  adopt  Mrs.  Richards' 
boy.  She  is  the  housekeeper.  Does  a  sight  for  him,  any  way.  Sends 
him  to  school  all  the  time ;  goin'  to  send  him  to  college,  I  have  heern. 
Curious  to  think  he  haint  never  got  married,  haint  it?  though  there 
is  time  enough  now.  Probably  the  right  one  haint  come  along  yet. 
There  is  time  enough  for  him  to  be  married.  Folks  older  than  he 
is  get  married,  if  the  right  one  comes  along,  and  they  can  coax  her 

up I'll  be  hanged  if  she  haint  right  there  ahead  of  us  !  If  there 

haint  Miss  Cobb,  as  sure  as  Christopher  Columbus ! " 


26  MISS  RICHARDS  BOY. 

On  the  side  of  the  road  opposite  the  park  there  was  a  little  grove, 
ami  amongst  the  scattered  trees  were  tall  berry-bushes ;  Auntie 
had  evidently  been  picking  berries,  for  there  was  a  bright  little  tin 
pail  hanging  on  her  arm.  She  had  come  out  into  the  highway  just 
in  advance  of  us,  and  drawing  her  roomy  gingham  sun-bonnet  over 
IHM-  face  like  a  shelter-tent,  she  was  walking  demurely  on  in  its  shade, 
looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  the  left,  when  my  driver  called  out : 
"  Hello,  Miss  Cobb,  see  what  I  have  brought  you." 
She  looked  round  rather  impatiently,  I  thought,  but  the  minute 
she  caught  sight  of  me,  she  darted  to  the  wagon,  threw  both  her  arms 
round  me,  and  kissed  me  loudly,  the  sun-bonnet  falling  back  on  her 
shoulders,  and  standing  up  like  a  tall  picket  of  gingham. 

"S'posen  you  pass  that  round,  Miss  Cobb.  Mebby  'twould  be 
agreeable  to  the  rest  of  the  present  company,"  said  Mr.  Capelin,  good- 
humored  ly. 

Auntie  deighed  not  to  reply  to  him,  but  pulled  her  sun-bonnet 
once  more  about  her  face,  and  telling  me  that  she  would  get  to  the 
house  about  as  quick  as  I  did,  she  walked  rapidly  on.  But  Mr.  Cape- 
lin kept  along  by  her  side. 

"  Come,  get  in,  Miss  Cobb ;  don't  be  a  walkin'  along  by  the  side 
of  the  wagon.  It  looks  too  much  in  the  dog  line.  Get  in.  Make 
yourself  to  hum." 

And  to  my  great  surprise  Auntie  did  get  in,  making  me  sit  between 
them,  however,  and  keeping  the  whole  box  sides  of  her  sun-bonnet 
straight  toward  the  horse.  And  not  one  word  did  she  say  to  Mr. 
Capelin,  only  to  reply  to  his  good-humored  questions  as  shortly  and 
tersely  as  possible.  Three  times  during  our  drive  he  hunched  me  with 
his  elbow,  .and  requested  me  in  a  whisper  to  observe  "how  she  was 
a  shyin'  off."  And  when,  at  Auntie's  door,  he  got  out  to  help  her 
out,  and  she  refused  to  touch  his  hand,  and  almost  fell  in  consequence, 
he  whispered  to  me  again,  as  he  lifted  me  out: 


MISS  RICHARDS'  BOY. 


27 


"  Curious,  haint  it,  how  balky  she  is  ? "  But  as  he  turned  round 
to  go  home,  he  said,  with  extreme  good-humor,  "  he  hoped  I  would 
have  a  first-rate  good  time  amongst  'em ;  couldn't  fail  of  it,  he  knew, 
with  such  a  woman  as  Miss  Cobb  to  live  with ;  wished  he  never  should 
have  anything  worse  happen  to  him  than  that  would  be."  Drove  off, 
and  then,  after  going  a  few  steps,  held  up  the  "well-meaning"  Jim, 
and  turning  round  on  his  seat,  he  asked  me  "if  I  wasn't  expectin' 
any  band-boxes  and  things.  Because,  if  I  was,  Jim  had  jest  as  leves 
bring  'em  down  as  not."  I  told  him  I  did  expect  some  boxes  and 
my  piano,  which  I  had  been  permitted  to  keep.  He  asked  me  "  when 
they  would  be  along."  I  told  him,  and  assuring  me  again  that  "  Jim 
wouldn't  fail  to  see  to  it,  and  bring  'em  down,"  he  drove  off.  As  he 
did  so,  I  said  with  some  enthusiasm : 

"  Isn't  he  a  very  good  man,  Auntie  ?  " 

"Good  enough  for  a  man,"  she  replied  tartly.  "But  there  haint 
no  more  dependence  on  'em,  as  a  race,  than  there  is  in  my  clock,  and 
that  struck  sixty  this  mornin'  at  nine  o'clock,  for  I  counted  it  with 


my  own  ears.  No," 
phasis,  as  we  walked 
bordered  path  from 
clean,  yellow  door- 
no  opinion  of  men  as 
A  woman,  a  few 
Auntie,  stood  in  the 
these  last  words  of 
peated  like  an  echo  : 
ion  of  'em." 
girl,  Jane  Tomkins," 
toward  the  door.  And 


JANE    TOMKINS. 


she  repeated  with  em- 
up  the  little  flower- 
the  front  gate  to  the 
steps.  "No,  I  haint 
a  race." 

years     younger    than 

open  door-way,  and  at 

her  mistress,  she   re- 

"  I  haint  no  'pm- 

"That  is  my  hired 

said   Auntie,    looking 

pointing  the  sun-bon- 


net suddenly  toward  my  ear,  she  whispered,  "And  she  haint  got  two 
idees  in  her  head  above  dish-water." 


JflSS  RICHARDS'  BOY. 


And  in  this  way  I  was  introduced  to  Auntie's  cottage  and  its 
inmates.  It  was  a  pleasant,  old-fashioned  farm-house,  large  enough  to 
hold  comfort,  but  not  display.  In  a  short  time  Auntie  and  Jane  had 
hurried  round  and  cooked  a  dinner,  which  would  have  delighted  the 
lu'arts  of  ten  hungry  men. 

After  dinner  was  over,  and  the  dishes  washed  and  put  away, 
Auntie  took  a  small  pail  of  milk  in  her  hand,  and  asked  me  if  I 
didn't  want  to  put  on  my  hat,  and  go  out  and  see  her  fci  corset. " 

I  told  her  I  would  go,  wondering  somewhat  at  her  evident  idea 
that  a  corset  was  a  strange  sight  to  me,  and  also  at  her  keeping  it 
out  of  doors.  I  thought,  however, 
she  might  have  been  washing  it, 


and  wished  to   show  me   her   signal   triumph   over   soiled   cloth   and 
whalebone.    But  she  led  the  way,  under  cherry  and  plum  trees,  back 


MISS  RICHAEDS1  BOT.  29 

to  a  low  pair  of  bars,  and  leaning  over  them,  she  commenced  calling 
gently,  "  Coday !  coday !  coday  !  "  And  in  a  few  minutes  a  large  white 
lamb  came  running  along,  trampling  down  the  daisies  and  butter-cups 
in  his  desire  to  get  to  his  mistress.  But  as  he  stopped  in  front  of 
us,  I  couldn't  help  laughing  out  heartily,  for  over  the  white,  innocent 
face  was  a  paper  cap,  tied  with  a  broad  ruffle  of  the  paper,  like  an 
old  woman's  night-cap.  The  effect,  as  the  lamb  lifted  his  eyes  expect- 
ingly  to  ours,  was  indescribably  funny  to  me,  but  Auntie  did  look  upon 
it  in  that  way,  she  was  deeply  indignant.  And  she  tore  it  off,  tear- 
ing it  to  pieces  as  she  did  so. 

"  Miss  Richards'  boy  agin !  "  she  exclaimed,  indignantly.  "  If  he 
meddles  with  my  corset  agin,  I'll  know  the  reason  why.  Dretful  cun- 
ning he  thinks  it  is.  It  takes  a  sight  of  sense  to  make  night-caps 
for  my  corset.  This  makes  three  times  within  a  month  that  my  corset 
has  come  home  with  a  night-cap  on.  He  has  got  to  stop  it,  or  I'll 
put  the  papers  onto  him.  Jest  as  sure  as  I  live  and  breathe  I'll  put 
the  papers  on  him  if  he  don't  stop  his  goin's  on." 

What  "  putting  the  papers  on  him "  meant,  I  did  not  know  at 
that  time ;  something  dreadful,  I  knew  by  her  tone.  Later,  I  learned 
that  she  meant  sueing  him,  the  "papers"  being  a  summons.  Her 
feelings,  which  were  outraged  by  this  indignity,  did  not  subside  again 
into  perfect  calmness,  until  we  wandered  back  into  the  kitchen-garden. 
Here  the  prosperous  looks  of  her  plants  and  vegetables  seemed  to 
restore  her  tranquillity,  and  she  asked  me,  in  a  tone  of  proud  assur- 
ance, "if  I  had  seen  another  such  a  garden  this  year?" 

I  told  her  truly  that  I  had  not.  for  everything  did  look  extremely 
nice  and  flourishing.  And  she  went  on  to  say,  "  that  a  good  garding 
she  would  have,  for  it  was  half  of  a  body's  living."  But  while  she 
was  talking  thus  composedly  to  me,  her  feelings  were  doomed  to 
another  shock,  for  chancing  to  stroll  near  the  pickets  that  separated 
her  "  garding "  from  the  highway,  I  heard  her  exclaim,  suddenly : 


gQ  MISS  RICHARDS'  BOY. 

'<  Til  put  the  papers  onto  him,  jest  as  sure  as  I  live." 

"  Who,  Auntie  ?  "  I  asked. 

" Miss  Richards'  boy!"  she  cried.  "  Look  there,"  said  she,  point- 
ing toward  the  fence.  And  there,  surmounting  one  of  the  pickets, 
like  the  bust  of  a  hero,  was  a  baby  pumpkin  carved  into  a  grotesque 
likeness  of  Miss  Cobb,  her  Roman  nose,  her  spectacles,  her  broad  cap 
border.  There  was  real  genius  in  it.  And  with  all  my  dignity,  (I 
was  very  dignified  and  old  at  that  time,)  I  could  scarcely  keep  from 
laughing.  But  Auntie  was  deeply  indignant. 

"  That  is  jest  the  way  that  boy  torments  the  life  out  of  me,  and 
as  good  as  I  have  been  to  him;  warnin'  him,  every  chance  I  get,  to 
leave  his  wild  ways,  and  flee  from  the  wrath  to  come ;  and  tellin'  him, 
time  and  agin,  that  if  he  didn't  turn  and  stop  behavin',  he  would 
wreathe  in  future  torment ;  exhorted  him,  told  him  jest  what  a  lost 
worm  of  the  dust  he  is.  Was  tellin'  him  so  yesterday.  Always  took 
jest  sucli  an  interest  in  him.  And  now  see  the  pay  I  get  for  it.  I'll 
put  the  papers  onto  him,  if  it  goes  on  so  much  longer." 

Jane,  the  hired  girl,  had  come  out  into  the  garden  to  pick  some 
berries  for  supper,  and  she  remarked,  like  an  echo  crystalized  in  flesh 
and  blood : 

"I  would  put  the  papers  onto  him,  if  I  was  in  your  place.  He 
is  a  bad,  good-for-nothing  boy  ?  " 

"  He  haint  no  such  thing.  A  better  hearted  boy  never  lived.  You 
had  better  keep  still,  and  tend  to  your  berries." 

I  was  much  surprised  at  the  sudden  change  in  Auntie's  words. 
I  was  not  so  wise  then  in  the  affection  that  claims  the  exclusive 
right  of  scolding  its  object. 

"  Does  lie  live  far  from  here,  Auntie  ? "  I  asked,  not  that  I  cared 
to  know  on  his  account,  I  was  not  thinking  of  "  Miss  Richards'  boy," 
but  upon  the  strange  and  mysterious  hero,  Hugh  Creveland. 

She  turned  and  pointed  toward  the  south. 


MISS  RICHARD'S  BOY. 


31 


"  Do  you  see  that  big  stone 
house,  with  the  Gabriels  on  the 
ruff?" 

"  The  what,  Auntie  ?  " 

"  The  house  with  the  Gabriel 
ends." 

I  followed  the  direction  of  her 
long,  slim  forefinger,  and  saw  the 
tall,  pointed  gables  rising  above  the 
dark  oak  trees. 

"  It  looks  as  if  it  were  a  splen- 
did old  house." 

"It  is.  The  house  with  the 
gabriel  ends  can't  be  beat,  nor 
anywhere  come  up  to  it  in  this 
country." 

"  Could  I  go  and  look  at  it  some 
day,  Auntie  ?  Would  the  house- 
keeper allow  me  ?  Is  she  a  good 
woman  ?  " 

"  She  has  her  properties." 

"  Maybe  Mr.  Creveland  wouldn't 
care  to  have  people  going  over  his 
house,  in  his  absence.  Is  he  a  nice 
man,  Auntie  ?  " 

"  He  has  his  properties." 

I  saw  that  Auntie  was  not  de- 
sirous of  prolonging  the  conversa- 
tion, and  so  I  outwardly  restrained 
my  curiosity,  and  followed  her  into 
the  house.  But  my  mind  was  no  more  engrossed  by  the  ideal  heroes 


32  MISS  RICHARDS'  SOY. 

of  the  romances  I  had  read  and  wept  over.  It  was  filled  with  the 
image  of  Hugh  Creveland. 

Fully  a  dozen  times  during  the  fortnight  before  I  commenced  my 
school  did  Auntie  come  in  from  her  "  garding,"  or  pasture,  rampant  to 
"  put  the  papers  onto  Miss  Bichards'es  boy."  But  did  the  much-suffer- 
ing Jane  venture  to  echo  her  revilings  ever  so  feebly,  she  would  only 
turn  the  torrent  of  her  indignation  toward  her  ;  and  once  she  told  Jane, 
in  an  injured,  rebuking  tone,  "  that  she  should  be  glad  if  she  had  his 
properties." 

In  fact,  I  could  not  discern  any  evil  in  any  of  the  deeds  that  vexed 
Auntie  so.  Only  the  very  spirit  of  fun  and  mischief  seemed  inspiring 
him.  Once,  I  know,  the  "  corset "  came  home  at  night — his  pasture  led 
back  through  a  shady  lane  to  the  entrance  of  the  park — and  he  came 
home  with  his  long  locks  parted  on  the  top  of  his  head,  braided,  and 
done  up  with  a  hair-pin,  and  wire  spectacles  fastened  over  his  wise, 
innocent  eyes.  Never  did  I  see  Auntie  so  fully  determined  as  she  was 
upon  this  occasion  "to  put  the  papers  onto  him"  ;  for  nothing  touched 
her  more  nearly  than  any  disrespect  to  "  the  corset." 

Later,  when  I  knew  the  utter  dreariness  of  the  life  he  led  at  home, 
his  seclusion  from  the  world,  his  mother's  gloom  and  melancholy,  and 
his  total  lack  of  all  society  and  recreation,  I  could  better  understand 
how  the  naturally  gay  spirits  and  irrepressible  life  of  "  Miss  Richards'es 
boy"  found  vent  in  such  whimsical  channels.  But  at  that  time  I  could 
not  understand  how  any  one  as  old  as  I  was,  and  I  was  very  old,  could 
possibly  be  so  childish  and  undignified.  I  was  very  dignified. 

It  was  a  dreamy  habit  of  mine  to  form  pictures  in  my  own  mind 
of  people  of  whom  I  had  heard  much  and  had  not  seen ;  and  I  decided 
that  Claude  Richards  was  stout,  a  good  deal  shorter  than  I,  although  he 
was  just  six  months  older,  Auntie  said;  thick-set,  with  very  red  cheeks 
and  black  eyes,  and  large,  red  hands,  that  he  could  find  no  fitting  place 
for.  In  fact,  I  decided  that  Miss  Richards'es  boy  was  rather  vulgar 
looking. 


MISS  RICHARDS'  BOY.  33 

But  time  rolled  on,  and  brought  the  day  that  I  was  to  commence 
my  school.  And  I  wended  my  way  toward  the  school-house,  with  my 
new  silver  bell  in  my  hand,  emblem  of  my  sovereign  dignity;  although 
many  days  have  passed  by  since  then,  I  have  never,  even  distantly, 
approached  the  venerable  age  I  then  enjoyed.  I  had  not  worn  long 
dresses  a  very  great  while,  but  I  put  on  my  longest  one  that  morning,  a 
blue  muslin,  that  trailed  slightly,  and  I  wound  my  abundant  hair  in  a 
great  shining  coil  at  the  back  of  my  head.  It  wanted  to  curl.  In  fact, 
it  would  assert  itself  and  have  its  own  way,  in  little  waves  and  rings, 
whenever  it  could  elude  my  close  vigilance.  But  I  did  my  best  to 
restrain  it  in  matronly  shape. 

Mr.  Capelin,  the  trustee,  came  down  to  Auntie's  in  the  morning,  as 
she  stood  by  the  gate  seeing  me  off,  and  he  offered  to  go  down  to  the 
school-house  with  me.  In  fact,  that  worthy  man  made  many  errands  in 
our  direction.  But  I  told  him  "  it  wasn't  necessary.  I  was  not  at  all 
afraid  of  having  any  trouble." 

"Let  me  see  anybody  making  you  any  trouble,"  said  he,  in  a  defiant 
tone.  "  Why,  I  should  jest  as  soon  think  of  abusing  a  moss  rose-bud  as 
you.  You  are  just  as  sweet  and  pretty  as  one,  this  minute."  And  he 
patted  my  head  as  I  passed  out  of  the  gate.  I  know  I  felt  that  his  pat- 
ting my  head  and  comparing  me  to  a  bud,  instead  of  a  full-blown  flower, 
was  compromising  to  my  dignity.  But  I  said  nothing,  and  after  I  left 
them,  I  looked  back  and  saw  that  he  was  talking  to  Auntie  quite  ear- 
nestly and  pleasantly  ;  and  she,  with  her  whaleboned  sun-bonnet  drawn 
defiantly  over  her  eyes,  was,  to  all  outward  appearance,  paying  him  not 
the  slightest  attention ;  and  I  know  I  thought  that  Mr.  Capelin  was 
probably,  in  his  own  mind,  bewailing  her  uncontrollable  tendency  to  be 
"  balky,  and  shy  off." 

There  was  quite  a  little  knot  of  pupils  collected  around  the  school- 
house  door, — small,  white-headed  boys  and  demure  little  girls,  with  pre- 
ternaturally  clean  faces  and  stiffly-starched  pink  calico  aprons.  I 


MISS  RICHARDS'  SOY. 


^ 


greeted  them  with  benignancy  and  dignified  affection.     It  was  not  quite 
school-time,  and  I  was  standing  in  the  open  door,  looking  across  the 

road  at  the  thick  foliage  of  the 
oak  trees,  for  Creveland  Park 
ran  along  the  opposite  side  of  the 
road,  when  a  little  gate  opened 
in  the  high  wall  opposite  me,  and 
a  young  gentleman  came  through. 
I  said  young  gentleman,  although 
he  was  a  lad  of  probably  about 
seventeen ;  but  he  looked  so  aris- 
tocratic, so  noble,  that  I  said  at 
once  to  myself,  "It  must  be 
either  a  relative  of  the  Creve- 
lands  or  some  grand  acquaint- 
ance of  the  family  visiting  there." 
He  had  such  an  easy,  graceful 
walk,  there  was  such  a  proud, 
careless  grace  in  the  pose  of  the 
handsome  head,  that,  as  he  seem- 
ed coming  toward  me,  my  dig- 
nity almost  fled  before  it.  As  I 
said,  his  destination  seemed  to 
be  the  school-house,  and  I  ex- 
pected to  hear  him  ask  me  the 
distance  to  the  next  village,  or 
perhaps  complain  of  some  mis- 
demeanor of  my  pupils  in  the 

CLAUDE   RICHARDS.  ,,   .  ,.,         .,  ,. 

park,  or  something  like  it,  when 

the   children    behind    me,   having   caught   sight   of    him,   commenced 
shouting,   rapturously,   "Claude!    Claude!    Claude    Richards!"      And 


MISS  RICHARDS'  EOT.  35 

I,  in  my  mute  surprise,  looking  up  into  the  handsomest  face  I  had 
ever  seen,  met,  for  the  first  time,  the  true,  honest  eyes  of  "  Miss  Rich- 
urds'es  boy,"  the  very  handsomest  face  I  had  ever  seen;  that  I  decided 
in  my  own  mind  at  the  first  glance.  And  my  next  wonder  was,  where 
did  he  get  his  elegant,  aristocratic  looks  and  ways,  his  air  of  perfect 
repose,  and  easy  manners  ?  His  eyes  were  blue,  clear,  and  steadfast ; 
blue  eyes,  that  met  your  own  frankly  and  fearlessly.  They  were  shaded 
with  long  lashes,  that,  at  times,  gave  rather  a  dreamy  look  to  them ; 
and  at  times  they  would  laugh,  and  sparkle,  and  run  over  with  merri- 
ment. They  were  the  most  wonderfully  changeful  and  expressive 
eyes  that  I  ever  saw ;  but  whatever  expression  they  might  assume  to- 
others, they  were  never  otherwise  than  kind  to  me. 

I  had  no  trouble  with  my  school.  My  pupils  were  all  good ;  and 
above  all  others  in  goodness  and  kindness  to  me  was  Miss  Richards'es 
boy,  although,  for  the  first  few  weeks,  he  occasionally  gave  vent  to  his 
inexpressible  spirits  in  mischievous  pranks,  which  I  would  always  cor- 
rect and  rebuke  in  a  gentle,  but  grave  and  dignified,  manner.  For, 
although  "Miss  Richards'es  boy"  was  a  half-year  older  than  I,  and 
although  I  suspected  at  the  time  that  his  education  was  far  superior  to 
mine,  still  I  felt,  in  my  dignified  position  as  teacher  and  the  founder  of 
my  own  fortunes,  as  if  I  might  be  his  grandmother.  And  so,  at  consid- 
erable personal  inconvenience  at  times,  for  I  had  an  eye  for  fun  myself, 
I  had  always  maintained  a  lady-like  composure  and  calm  demeanor. 

But  one  day — it  was  the  fourth  week  of  my  school,  I  think, — I  lost 
my  composure  and  serene  demeanor,  and  it  was  the  fault  of  "  Miss 
Richards'es  boy."  All  that  day  I  had  had  a  torturing  headache.  I  had 
felt  so  ill  in  the  morning,  that  Auntie  said,  "  instead  of  going  to  school, 
1  had  better  go  and  lay  down,  and  let  her  pull  the  curtings  down,  and  I 
was  as  white  as  her  corset."  And  Mr.  Capelin,  who  had  sauntered 
down  to  see  if  he  could  borrow  a  plow,  although  he  knew  he  could  just 
as  well  have  obtained  a  cannon  or  an  iron-clad  war-ship  of  Auntie  as  a 


36 


MISS  RICHARDS'  BOY. 


plow.  He  also  joined  his  entreaties  that  I  would  "  stay  at  home,  and 
let  Miss  Cobb  doctor  me  up.  He  wished  he  could  have  the  chance  ;  he 
would  give  a  silver  dollar  for  it,"  he  said,  looking  at  Auntie,  with  good- 
nature beaming  from  his  eyes. 

Auntie,  of  course,  paid  no  sort  of  attention  to  his  words ;  but  1 
thanked  him  for  his  kind  advice,  and  I  told  him  I  thought  I  could  teacli 
well  enough.  I  thought  my  headache  would  wear  off.  But  it  did  not. 


"I   HAVE   BEEN   A   WRETCH." 

It  grew  worse  and  worse,  although  my  paleness  vanished,  I  knew,  for 
my  cheeks  burned  like  fire.  I  dare  say  I  looked  healthier  than  ever, 
and  he  had  no  idea  of  my  feeling  so  ill.  But  it  was  about  the  middle 
of  the  afternoon,  when  every  word  I  spoke  seemed  to  rend  my  head, 
and  every  noise  and  move  of  the  children  was  torture  to  me,  that 
Claude  came  to  me  with  an  exercise  he  wished  me  to  correct.  And 
there,  instead  of  the  mathematical  puzzle,  was  a  picture  of  a  school- 


MISS  RICHARDS'  BOY.  3f 

ma'am,  with  an  unnaturally  long  whip  in  her  hand,  driving  her  brood 
of  scholars  up  the  mount  of  knowledge.  As  I  looked  at  it  I  laughed 
wildly ;  and  then,  laying  my  head  down  on  the  desk,  I  burst  into 
tears.  But  as  I  laid  there,  sobbing  like  a  baby,  that  I  was,  I  felt  a 
hand  upon  my  head,  a  gentle  hand,  and  it  was  a  gentle  voice  that 
said  : 

"  I  have  been  a  wretch,  to  annoy  you  so ;  but  I'll  never  do  it 
again.  Try  me,  and  see  if  I  will." 

But  as  I  still  sobbed  on,  he  added,  remorsefully : 

"  Or  you  may  turn  me  out  of  school,  if  you  had  rather.  Just 
say  the  word,  and  I'll  go  this  minute.  But  I'll  be  good  if  you'll  let 
me  stay.  See  if  I  am  not." 

Of  course,  I  told  him  to  stay,  and  that  I  was  ill  and  nervous,  or 
I  should  not  have  noticed  such  a  trifle.  And  I  know  how  true  a 
compassion  and  remorse  looked  out  of  his  blue  eyes  at  my  words. 
And  I  recollect,  he  went  down  to  a  spring  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away 
to  get  some  water  of  extra  coldness  to  bathe  my  head ;  and  then  he 
insisted  on  hearing  all  my  classes  for  me.  And  I  remember  I  went 
home  that  night  with  the  conviction  that  I  had  never  seen  any  one 
manlier  and  kinder  than  "  Miss  Richards'es  boy." 

And  as  the  days  rolled  by  that  impression  deepened  and  intensi- 
fied. His  wild  pranks,  his  irrepressible  outbursts  of  fun  grew  less  fre- 
quent. He  applied  himself  diligently  to  his  books;  and,  surely,  no 
teacher  could  have  a  kinder,  gentler  pupil  than  he.  And,  in  spite  of 
my  advanced  age  and  my  mild,  dignified  airs  of  superiority,  he  seemed 
to  have  a  sort  of  protecting  instinct,  and  tried  in  every  way  to  guard 
me  from  annoyance  and  save  me  from  anxiety.  There  was  one  white- 
headed  little  chap  who  caused  me  great  trouble.  I  was  very  ambi- 
tious to  teach  my  smaller  pupils  a  great  deal,  and  I  daily  drilled  them 
in  Bible  and  historical  questions.  And  this  little  fellow,  I  know, 
never  failed  of  affirming  that  he  was  made  by  "  George  Washington." 


38  MIS8  RICHARDS'  BOY. 

1  think,  after  a  while,  he  said  it  through  obstinacy  ;  for  I  drilled  him 
so  thoroughly  that  he  must  have  known  that  he  had  a  diviner,  origin. 
But  this  child  seemed  to  have  a  chronic  and  perennial  desire  to  put  an 
end  to  the  life  that  he  insisted  had  its  origin  in  "  George  Washington." 
And  he  seemed  determined  to  kill  himself  while  at  school.  And  as  he 
was  an  only  child,  and  his  mother  a  pitiful-looking  little  widow,  I  felt  as 
if  a  great  responsibility  had  indeed  fallen  on  me.  At  noon  and  recess, 
if  1  were  not  continually  on  the  lookout,  he  would  either  fall  in  the 
creek,  and  be  nearly  drowned,  or  drop  down  from  tree-tops,  and  be 
brought  in  bruised  and  bloody.  He  was  my  youngest  pupil,  and  I  loved 
him  very  much ;  and  it  seemed  as  if  my  hair  must  turn  as  white  as  his 
own  through  watchfulness  and  anxiety.  I  told  Claude  one  day  how  I 
felt  about  it ;  for,  being  my  oldest  pupil,  and  so  very,  very  good  to  me,  1 
had  fallen  into  the  habit  of  going  to  him  with  all  my  small  perplexities 
and  cares  ;  and  Claude  told  me  to  "  not  give  myself  any  uneasiness  on 
account  of  the  young  '  Father  of  his  Country  ' " — for  so  they  irrever- 
ently called  him — "  for  he  would  take  him  under  his  wing."  And  he 
was  as  good  as  his  word.  He  did.  He  either  kept  him  with  him,  or  he 
found  means  to  amuse  him  in  some  safe  manner  ;  and  so  that  great 
load  was  taken  off  my  shoulders.  And  then  there  was  another  boy, 
not  large  in  body,  but  with  immense  powers  of  making  himself  disa- 
greeable. Against  this  boy's  annoyances  Claude  was  my  rock  of 
defence.  Indeed,  he  was  so  kind  to  me,  so  thoughtful,  so  solicitous  for 
my  welfare,  so  intelligent  and  delightful  a  companion,  and  in  every  way 
so  straightforward,  and  manly,  and  honest,  that  I  used  often  to  wonder 
what  I  should  do  if  it  were  not  for  "  Miss  Richards'es  boy." 

My  society  seemed  to  give  him  also  great  contentment.  He  came 
to  me  with  all  his  joys  and  with  all  his  troubles.  One  day  he  said  to 
me,  what  he  said  he  had  never  spoken  of  before  to  any  one,  how  gloomy 
his  home  was.  I  had  been  lecturing  him  about  some  of  his  pranks,  and 
he  laughed  heartily  when  I  told  him  of  Auntie's  consternation  about 
her  "  corset."  I  did  not  tell  him,  however,  how  narrowly  he  had 


MISS  RICHARDS'  EOT.  39 

escaped  having "  the  papers  put  onto  him."  He  laughed,  his  hearty, 
ringing  laugh,  as  I  said,  and  then  there  was  a  wistful,  weary  look  crept 
into  his  blue  eyes,  as  he  said : 

"  I  oughtn't  to  say  it,  even  to  you,  but  I  just  wish  you  knew  what 
life  \vas  at  our  house.  My  mother  loves  me,  and  is  good ;  but  she  never 
speaks,  if  she  can  help  it.  She  will  not  have  any  society  herself,  or 
allow  me  to  have.  She  is  so  still,  so  melancholy  !  Do  you  know,  I 
never  heard  her  laugh  in  my  whole  life.  Home  is  like  a  grave,  only  the 
corpse  is  a  living  one." 

I  pitied  him,  and  I  told  him  so ;  and  I  know  my  sympathy  seemed 
to  cheer  him  up  wonderfully,  though  it  was  not  his  way  to  be  sad  long. 
And  I  thought,  in  the  future,  when  I  should  have  wedded  my  noble  and 
mysterious  hero,  and  was  living  in  grandeur  unexcelled,  that  then  it 
would  be  one  of  my  greatest  delights  to  make  a  happy  home,  in  which 
to  welcome  my  boy. 

In  all  this  time,  although  I  had  dreamed  of  it  by  night  and  by  day, 
I  had  never  seen  Creveland  Hall,  the  home  of  the  hero  of  my  imagina- 
tion, Hugh  Creveland.  ,  Auntie  had  told  me  "  she  would  go  with  me 
some  day,  and  let  me  see  the  pictures,  bein'  as  I  was  such  a  case  for 
'em."  But  she  had  put  it  off  from  day  to  day.  Probably  Mr.  Capelin 
would  have  called  her  "  balky." 

But  at  last,  it  was  just  after  my  summer  school  had  closed,  she 
told  me,  one  morning,  that  "  if  it  was  agreeable  to  me,  we  would  walk 
over  to  the  house  with  the  gabriel  ends,"  as  Auntie  never  failed,  with 
inexorable  determination,  to  call  it.  She  said  she  had  business  with  the 
gardener.  We  set  out  accordingly.  It  was  about  a  mile,  and  by  a 
beautiful  road,  winding  through  to  the  park. 

Grand  as  I  had  imagined  Creveland  Hall  to  be,  it  transcended  all 
my  expectations.  I  had  never  seen  anything  of  the  kind  before.  Its 
imposing  size  quite  overpowered  me. 

Had  not  Auntie  assured  me  so  many  times  that  "  Miss  Richards 
had  her  properties,"  1  should  have  been  afraid  of  her,  such  a  white, 


40 


MISS  RICHARDS'  BOY. 


still  ghost  of  a  woman !  There  was  not  a  look  of  her  son  in  her  face. 
But  up  in  the  long  picture-gallery  was  a  portrait,  that,  although  dark 
and  haughty  in  its  beauty,  had  an  indescribable  likeness,  in  the  proud 
poise  of  the  head,  the  droop  of  the  long  eyelashes,  to  "  Miss  Richards'es 


AT   THE   HALL. 


boy."  I  mentioned  this,  to 
Mrs.  Richards,  who  accom- 
panied me,  and  chanced  to 
glance  up  at  her,  as  I  spoke. 
I  was  astonished  to  see  the 
change  in  her  face.  She  did  not  look  confused  at  all.  But  in  her  eyes, 
as  she  gazed  steadfastly  on  the  handsome,  haughty  face,  I  read  wounded 
love,  hatred,  contempt,  and,  above  all,  a  powerlessness  such  as  I  have 
sometimes  seen  in  hunted  animals.  Instinctively,  I  turned  away,  and 
looked  at  another  picture,  a  tall  lady,  clad  in  a  velvet  habit,  with  a  fal- 
con on  her  wrist.  But  the  gentle,  low  voice  of  Mrs.  Richards  recalled 
my  attention. 

"  That  gentleman  ?     That,"  she  said,  calmly,  "  is  the  present  owner 


MISS  RICHARDS'  DOT.  41 

of  the  estate,  Hugh  Creveland  ;  and  that  tall  lady  was  his  grandmother. 
She  was  the  daughter  of  an  English  lord." 

Not  a  trace  of  emotion  could  I  see  in  her  face  now.  It  was  utterly 
impassive.  I  decided  that  my  former  impression  must  have  been  fancy. 
But,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  did  not  give  Mrs.  Richards  much  thought,  for 
my  mind  was  too  much  engrossed  with  the  dark,  handsome  face  I  had 
seen  at  last,  the  mysterious  hero  of  all  my  romantic  dreams,  the  prince 
of  all  my  castles  in  the  west,  Hugh  Creveland. 

And  from  this  time,  more  than  ever,  he  was  my  imaginary  hero.  I 
thought  of  all  the  mysteries  in  his  past  life.  I  thought  of  him,  a  wan- 
derer for  so  many  years,  with  no  gentle  voice  to  welcome  him  home 
after  his  long  and  perilous  sojourning,  no  tender  eyes  to  weep  over  his 
absence  and  grow  bright  at  his  return.  No  wonder  he  was  a  rover,  an 
exile.  But  some  gentle  hand  would  save  him;  some  love  would  shield 
him  from  all  temptation.  And  then,  to  be  mistress  of  Creveland  Hall. 
Why  that,  in  itself,  was  enough  to  make  any  woman's  bliss. 

The  days,  the  months  passed  on.  Two  years  elapsed.  But  so 
gently  did  they  go  that  it  seemed  as  if  Time  had  wreathed  his  hour- 
glass with  poppies  and  mandragora  and  fallen  asleep. 

The  "  corset "  and  the  "  gardiiig  "  were  prosperous.  Mr.  Capelin 
still  haunted  the  house  on  every  possible  occasion  and  on  the  strangest 
errands.  To  his  discouragement,  Auntie  still  "  shyed  off,  and  was 
balky." 

It  was  a  secluded  life  that  I  led,  but  I  was  not  at  all  lonely.  I  was 
content  and  happy ;  and  that  I  was  so  I  think  was  greatly  owing  to 
"  Miss  Richards'es  boy."  Thrown  together  constantly  as  we  were,  real- 
izing, on  closer  acquaintance,  how  good  and  noble  he  was,  he  came  to 
seem  in  a  way  to  belong  to  me.  With  true  maternal  interest,  I  would 
give  him  long  lectures  upon  life  and  its  duties.  I  wished  him  to  be  so 
noble  and  successful.  I  beseeched  him  to  make  his  future  as  grand  as 
my  hopes  were  for  him.  I  told  him,  as  his  teacher,  I  should  feel  ili.it 
he  honored  me  by  every  exalted  deed  of  his. 


42  MISS  BICHABDS'  BOY. 

Claude  took  my  lectures  in  good  part.  In  fact,  he  seemed  to  like 
to  be  with  me,  whatever  I  might  say  to  him.  He  did  not  come  to  my 
school  longer  than  for  the  first  term  ;  but  I  saw  him  every  day.  He 
studied  at  home,  and  recited  to  the  clergyman  at  Cold  Creek,  and  was 
making  good  progress,  I  understood.  Mr.  Creveland  had  written  about 
his  going  to  college ;  but  his  mother  disliked  having  him  leave  home  as 
long  as  he  could  learn  of  the  good  rector. 

I  was  nearly  nineteen,  and  Claude  six  months  older,  when  it  began 
to  dawn  on  me  that  "  my  boy  "  loved  his  teacher,  not  as  the  dignified 
instructor  I  had  tried  to  be,  not  in  the  filial  way  I  had  always  encour- 
aged him  to  regard  me,  but  as  a  woman  to  be  won  and  wed.  And  I 
remember  just  how  the  knowledge  impressed  me  when  I  first  became 
aware  of  it.  I  remember  just  the  answer  prepared  for  him,  when  he 
should  come  to  use  plain  words  of  love.  It  was  to  be  a  refusal,  of 
course  ;  but  it  was  to  be  benignant,  thoughtful,  kind,  yet  firm,  firm  as 
fate. 

It  was  to  commence,  "  My  dear  boy,"  in  a  motherly,  affectionate 
tone ;  and  it  was  to  contain  a  good  deal  of  moral  instruction  and 
exhortation.  It  was  to  be  long,  and  was  to  have  the  effect  of  melting 
him  to  tears.  And  I  was  to  retain  a  gentle  composure  and  calmness 
and  a  demeanor  combining  the  maternal  with  the  dignified  instructor. 

But  how  different  it  was,  to  be  sure,  from  what  I  had  dreamed.  It 
was  the  evening  after  he  received  a  letter  from  Mr.  Creveland,  saying 
that  the  arrangements  were  all  made,  and  Claude  was  to  go  to  college, 
and  his  outfit  was  to  be  obtained  in  the  college  town,  my  own  old  home, 
arid  he  was  to  be  there  on  such  a  day  of  the  month.  A  friend  of  Mr. 
Creveland,  a  lawyer,  with  whom  he  had  become  acquainted  while 
abroad  (and,  strange  to  say,  it  was  the  very  relative  of  my  guardian 
whom  I  had  considered  stony-hearted),  was  to  meet  him,  and  would 
attend  to  all  necessary  business.  Claude  was  to  start  within  a  week. 

It  was  a  lovely  afternoon,  and  I  had  wandered  down  to  a  favorite 


MISS  RICHARDS'  BOY.  43 

resort  of  ours  on  the  bank  of  the  lake,  at  the  southern  extremity  of  the 
park.  And  Claude  followed  me  there,  and  in  the  sweet  sunset  told  me 
he  was  going  away. 

"  Going?"  said  I,  with  a  great  pang  at  my  heart.  Who  would  be 
left  to  take  my  hoy's  place?  Who  was  ever  so  kind,  so  good  to  me? 
And  so  the  tears  were  in  my  eyes,  instead  of  his,  when  he  told  me 
<;  how  dear  1  was  to  him,  how  I  seemed  so  near  and  precious,  like  a  part 
of  his  o\vu  life." 

I  know  his  words  gave  me  great  content  and  rest ;  and  as  we  stood 
there,  side  by  side,  it  seemed  as  if  the  great  world  withdrew  from  us, 
with  nil  its  inhabitants,  even  my  mysterious  hero,  and  Claude  and  I 
were  as  much  alone,  and  yet  as  blessed,  as  Adam  and  Eve  in  Eden. 

But  I  made  a  great  effort  to  recover  my  dignity.  I  tried  to  remem- 
ber some  of  the  lectures  I  had  prepared  for  the  occasion.  It  was  quite 
a  failure  as  a  lecture,  I  think ;  but  it  served  a  purpose.  For  the  first 
time  in  my  life  I  saw  Claude  angry.  He  accused  me  of  heartlessness, 
and  said  "I  did  not  care  for  him,  was  cold,  indifferent." 

His  vehement  passion  for  a  moment  restored  my  self-assurance.  I 
said : 

"  I  do  not  care  for  you,  my  dear  boy  ?  No  one  can  ever  have  a 
warmer  interest  in  your  welfare,  not  even  your  mother." 

"  If  you  want  to  drive  me  distracted,  talk  to  me  a  little  more  about 
motherly  interest,  and  such  rubbish.  I  am  older  than  you,  and  you 
know  it." 

"Time  cannot  be  rightly  reckoned  by  years  alone.  There*  is  an 
experience  that  makes  people  old  while  they  are  yet  young.  Age  does 
not  always  depend  upon  days  and  months.  I  am  much,  very  much 
older  than  you,  my  dear  boy.  And  it  is  my  duty  to  tell  you  that 
you  will  forget  all  this  in  the  future,  and  will  bestow  your  love 
more  worthily  and  happily  upon  some  young  girl,  some  blue-eyed 
fairy.  (My  eyes  were  brown.)  You -will  get  over  this  boyish  fancy." 


44 


MISS  RICHARDS'  BOY. 


Perhaps  I  expected  that  he  would  interrupt  me  with  tearful  plead- 
ings and  entreaties ;  but,  if  so,  I  was  mistaken.  He  was  silent  for  a 
moment.  When  I  glanced  up  at  him  (he  was  a  great  deal  taller  than 
1),  I  saw  upon  his  face  a  look 
I  had  never  seen  there  before. 
It  was  not  that  of  a  boy,  not 
that  of  a  poor  widow's  son.  It 


was  as  if  whole  generations  of 
proud  ancestors  looked  out  of 
his  steadfast  eyes. 

"  Time  will  prove  whether 
this  is  a  boyish  fancy,"  he  said. 

And  before  I  could  say  a 
word,  he  was  gone.  And  I, 
overcome  with  a  sudden  sense 
of  loss^  and  loneliness,  buried 
my  face  in  my  hands  —  strange 
inconsistency  —  and  wept. 

The  next  day,  and  every 
day  while  he  remained  at  home, 
Claude  came  to  see  me,  as  usual,  THE  REFUSAL. 

but  not  in  the  role  I  had  marked  out  for  him ;  pale,  anguish-stricken, 
with  despairing  eyes,  vexing  me  with  entreaties.     No,  nothing  of  the 


MISS  RICHARDS'  BOY.  45 

kind.  Not  by  a  word,  or  a  glance,  did  he  show  that  I  was  any  more 
to  him  than  the  friend  that  lie  valued  and  respected.  And  by  some 
mystic  process,  beyond  my  reasoning  or  will,  he  grew  older,  and  1 
younger  every  day.  Younger,  and  weaker,  and  far  less  wise,  although 
no  word  or  look  of  his  ever,  helped  to  give  me  the  impression. 

On  his  return  from  college,  during  his  first  vacations,  the  same 
subtle  mystery  remained,  and  increased.  My  boy  was  getting  to  be 
very,  very  much  older  and  stronger  than  I. 

No  brother  could  be  tenderer  and  kinder  to  an  only  sister,  but 
he  never  spoke  again  of  love.  Still,  in  spite  of  his  silence,  I  felt  in 
my  heart,  I  read  it  sometimes  in  his  blue,  honest  eyes,  that  time  was, 
indeed,  proving  the  strength  of  what  I  had  called  his  boyish  fancy. 

I  had  now  reached  my  twentieth  birthday.  It  was  a  still,  lovely 
June  twilight.  I  stood  by  the  low,  brown  gate,  in  front  of  Auntie's, 
looking  at  the  beauty  of  the  western  sky,  when  I  heard  the  slow, 
steady  tramp  of  a  horse,  coming  down  the  road.  The  rider  was  a 
stranger  to  me,  I  thought,  at  the  first  glance ;  but  as  he  came  nearer, 
I  knew  him  at  once.  He  saw  me,  and  raised  his  hat  with  easy 
grace.  But  at  that  very  moment,  the  "  corset "  sprang  out  across  the 
road,  the  gray  horse  shied  and  reared,  and  Hugh  Creveland,  flung  head- 
long, lay  insensible  at  my  feet. 

A  couple  of  men,  one  of  them  the  gray-headed  old  gardener  at  the 
Hall,  chanced  to  Jbe  coming  down  the  road,  and  as  they  saw  the  fall, 
they  ran  up,  and  carried  him  into  the  house,  and  laid  him  on  the 
lounge,  in  the  sitting-room.  He  was  injured  considerably,  and  an  arm 
was  broken,  besides  a  severe  bruise  on  the  temple.  But  the  doctor 
who  cared  for  him  was  skillful,  and  Auntie  was  a  good  nurse,  and  he 
"got  along  famously,"  so  he  said. 

It  seems  like  a  dream  to  me,  his  stay  in  our  cottage,  or  a  page 
from  the  romances  I  used  to  delight  in ;  and  like  a  dream  within  a 
dream,  is  one  shadowy  memory. 


40  MISS  RICHARDS'  BOY. 

It  was  the  night  after  his  accident,  when  the  news,  of  course, 
had  gone  out,  —  magnified,  as  in  all  small  places,  —  (hat  he  was  fatally 
injured.  The  doctor  had  given  an  opiate  to  ease  his  pain,  and 
gone  home.  Auntie  had  lain  down  upon  the  lounge,  in  the  next 
room.  I  was  left  to  watch,  and  sat,  half-asleep,  and  half-awake,  in 
the  large  arm-chair,  drawn  up  beside  the  window.  The  lamp  was 


THE   DREAM. 

turned  down  to  a  faint  spark  upon  the  table.  The  moon  hung  low 
in  the  west,  like  a  large  silver  globe.  The  night-winds  stirred  the 
tendrils  and  clusters  of  the  creeping  rose  at  the  window,  and  the 
moonlight  threw  their  shadowy  reflections  on  the  carpet.  How  they 
waved,  and  flickered,  and  chased  each  other.  And  was  it  a  dream, 


MISS  RICHARDS'  EOT.  47 

or  did  a  still  figure  glide  across  these  shadows  —  a  woman's  form  — 
and  pause  by  the  couch  of  the  sick  man,  wringing  its  hands  ?  And 
did  I  hear  a  voice,  or  did  I  imagine  it  ? 

"  Is  it,  then,  a  last  farewell  ?  Is  your  bad  life  to  be  ended  here  ? 
Or  will  you  live  to  break  other  women's  hearts,  as  you  have  mine  ? " 

The  voice,  or  the  wind,  whatever  it  was,  ceased ;  the  still,  white 
figure,  or  the  shadow  of  the  moonlight,  glided  away,  and  was  lost; 
and  the  shadows  mingled  and  intertwined  strangely  and  grotesquely. 
The  next  thing  I  remember,  the  morning  sun  was  shining  in  the  room, 
and  Auntie  stood  by  the  table,  mixing  a  draught  for  her  patient. 

"Where  is  the  woman,  Auntie  ?"  were  my  first  words. 

"What   woman?" 

"  The  woman  who  came  here  last  night.  She  looked  like  Mrs. 
Richards." 

"  There  has  been  no  one  here.     You  have  been  dreaming,  child.'* 

"  I  saw  her,  I  am  sure  of  it." 

"  It  is  impossible,  for  I  was  awake  every  minute  of  the  night." 

Now,  as  Auntie  was  one  of  the  kind  who  consider  it  a  personal 
affront  to  be  accused  of  going  to  sleep,  except  in  their  lawful  beds,  I 
said  no  more.  But  the  dream  remained  with  me. 

And  like  a  dream  was  my  life  for  the  next  few  weeks.  Mr. 
Creveland  got  better,  and  after  a  few  days  was  able  to  sit  in  a 
great  easy-chair.  The  doctor,  indeed,  hinted  of  some  internal  injury, 
that  demanded  perfect  rest,  and  care,  lest  it  might  terminate  danger- 
ously. But  Mr.  Creveland  was  so  imperious,  so  used  to  having  his 
own  way,  that  he  paid  little  heed  to  these  admonitions.  Meanwhile 
he  was  gentleness  itself  to  me,  and  fascinating  beyond  words,  when 
he  chose.  He  staid  with  us  six  weeks.  A  new  world  he  brought  to 
me,  new  thoughts,  new  subjects  of  interest.  Not  a  happier  world,  for 
it  was  too  restless,  too  disturbed,  too  uncertain  and  strange,  for  simple 
content  and  happiness. 


48  MISS  RICHARDS'  BOY. 

I  had  never  thought  much  of  my  books,  in  my  hitherto  calm 
life.  My  little  mirror,  in  my  room,  told  me  that  I  had  a  fair  face,  a 
face  with  big,  wondering,  brown  eyes,  and  a  wistful,  appealing  look. 
But  I  had  never  given  these  things  much  thought,  or  regarded  them 
as  a  means  of  power.  Now,  however,  as  I  met  the  bold,  handsome, 
admiring  eyes  of  Hugh  Creveland,  there  was  something  in  them  that 
brought  back  my  guardian's  words  to  me,  "Your  face,  my  little  Eva, 
will  make  your  fortune." 

I  was  very  artless,  very  innocent,  I  believe ;  but  I  had  not  been 
in  Hugh  Cleveland's  presence  a  week,  before  I  knew  he  loved  me. 
He  did  not  say  so,  in  direct  words ;  but  I  read  it  in  every  glance  of 
his  eyes,  every  tone  of  his  voice ;  and  above  all,  by  that  strange  intu- 
ition that  lets  women  read  hearts  so  well. 

And  as  the  days  passed  by,  I  saw  that  he  was  fighting  against 
that  love,  with  all  his  might.  I  thought  it  was  his  pride,  that  stood 
in  the  way  of  his  fancy.  He  acted  so  strangely  at  times !  His  man- 
ner would  change  so  suddenly,  from  cheerfulness  to  gloom  and 
despondency.  He  liked  to  hear  me  play  and  sing,  and  he  would  read 
aloud  for  hours,  sending  to  the  Hall  for  piles  of  books  from  the  great 
library.  He  would  read  sounding  old  ballads,  recounting  noble  deeds, 
and  exquisite  love  poems,  making  them  seem  real,  by  their  rapt,  soul- 
ful expression ;  and  then  sometimes  he  would  throw  the  book  down, 
and  make  satirical  remarks  upon  the  folly  of  believing  in  anything  in 
this  wgrld,  especially  in  love  and  truth. 

And  yet,  at  times,  he  so  fully,  unmistakably  showed  his  love  for 
me,  in  every  tone  and  glance,  that  I  knew  it  was  only  his  pride  that 
kept  him  silent,  and  made  him  struggle  against  his  fancy  for  an 
unknown,  penniless  girl. 

Claude  came  home,  on  a  short  vacation,  while  Mr.  Creveland  was 
at  Auntie's.  The  first  time  Claude  called,  I  did  not  see  him,  for  I 
was  busy  reading  to  Mr.  Creveland,  and  Auntie  did  not  send  for  me. 


MISS  RICHARDS'  BOY.  49 

But  he  came  again,  the  next  day;  and  oh,  how  glad  I  was  to  see 
him !  I  thought  he  looked  pale,  and  his  honest  blue  eyes  seemed 
unnaturally  large.  I  told  him  I  knew  he  was  studying  too  hard. 

"  Yes,  he  was  studying  hard,"  he  said.  "  Besides  his  usual 
studies  at  college,  he  was  studying  law,  at  spare  hours,  with  Mr. 
Lansing,  the  lawyer,  and  friend  of  Mr.  Cleveland's.  It  would  help 
him,  he  said,  when  he  left  college.  He  would  not  have  to  spend  so 
much  time  in  his  law  studies  then,  and  he  was  in  haste  to  get  along 
as  fast  as  possible ;  for  he  wished  to  repay  Mr.  Creveland  for  the 
help  he  had  given  in  his  education.  He  should  insist  on  paying  back 
every  penny  of  it,"  he  said,  proudly. 

I  had  a  vague  heartache  after  he  had  gone.  I  was  worried,  I 
said,  to  see  him  looking  so  pale.  And  I  repeated  to  myself,  with  a 
good  deal  of  emphasis,  "If  he  were  my  own  boy,  I  could  not  love 
him  any  better." 

Mr.  (Vrvrland  was  very  kind  to  Claude,  and  after  he  went  away 
tli at  night,  spoke  of  him  in  the  kindest  manner,  but  with  an  odd  agi- 
tation, I  fancied. 

I  remember,  thinking,  in  a  dreamy  fashion,  that  night,  after  I 
laid  my  head  upon  my  pillow,  that  if  Mr.  Cleveland's  love  did,  indeed, 
prove  stronger  than  his  pride,  and  if  I  should,  in  the  future,  become 
mistress  of  all  his  riches,  why,  how  much  I  might  do  for  Claude.  How 
I  could  smooth  his  path  in  life !  I  know  I  thought  a  great  deal 
more  about  my  happiness,  in  helping  him  to  a  grand  future,  than  I 
did  of  my  own  happiness,  in  enjoying  such  grandeur. 

The  six  weeks  rolled  away  at  last,  and  the  day  came  when  Mr. 
Creveland  was  to  leave  us.  He  had  a  fancy  to  walk  over  to  the  Hall, 
through  the  little  foot-path  in  the  park ;  and  though  Auntie  proposed 
to  have  the  carriage  sent  for,  he  wouldn't  hear  to  it.  So  Auntie  had 
to  content  herself  with  making  preparations  for  a  dinner  of  uncom- 
mon magnificence,  for  he  said  he  wouldn't  go  until  afternoon. 

4 


50  JOSS  RICHARDS'  EOT. 

It  was  Saturday ;  there  was  no  school,  and  I  was  at  home  for 
the  entire  day.  I  could  hear  Auntie  and  Jane  bustling  about  from 
kitchen  to  pantry,  and  from  cellar  to  kitchen,  as  I  sat  with  my  sew- 
ing, in  my  favorite  seat,  by  the  western  window  of  the  sitting-room. 
It  was  a  pleasant  little  nook,  for  on  the  broad,  old-fashioned  window- 
sill,  I  had  a  window-box  filled  with  delicate  ferns,  and  geraniums  of 
different  colors,  and  two  or  three  climbing-plants,  that  reached  up, 
trying  to  enfold  the  cage  where  my  two  canaries  sang. 

All  the  morning,  Mr.  Creveland  had  acted  odder,  more  restless, 
more  mysterious  than  ever.  He  now  came  in,  and  advancing  to  the 
window,  leaned  against  the  opposite  side,  and  stood  looking  down 
upon  me.  I  felt  that  his  eyes  were  upon  me,  though  I  did  not  look 
up,  but  stitched  away,  as  if  my  life  depended  upon  it. 

How  the  birds  sang!  As  if  they  desired  to  give  an  extra  melo- 
dious serenade  to  speed  our  departing  guest. 

"Foolish  little  birds!"  said  Mr.  Creveland,  softly.  "Don't  you 
think  so,  Miss  Hamilton  ?  " 

"  Foolish  ?     Why,  Mr.  Creveland  ?  " 

"  To  sing  so  merrily,  when  they  are  captives.  I  should  think  their 
hearts  would  be  breaking." 

"  Perhaps  they  are  unselfish.  Maybe  they  are  singing  for  others, 
to  make  others  happier,  and  so  forget  their  own  condition/' 

I  spoke  lightly,  and  smiled.  But  as  I  glanced  up  into  my  compan- 
ion's face,  the  smile  died  upon  my  lips ;  for  if  love  and  sorrow  ever 
looked  out  of  mortal  eyes,  they  were  looking  then  from  the  dark,  beau- 
tiful eyes  of  Hugh  Creveland. 

"Eva — Miss  Hamilton — I  want  to  ask  you  a  question,"  he  said. 
He  paused  a  moment,  and  then  went  on  rapidly.     "  Suppose  you  were  a 
captive,  shut  up  in  a  gloomy   cell,  chained   down  with   heavy  chains, 
which  you  could  not  break ;  no  matter  who  forged  the  chains,  whether  * 
it  were  yourself  or  another.     If  you  were  in  that  gloomy  dungeon,  no 


MISS  RICHARDS'  BOY. 


51 


sunshine,  no  bloom,  no  beauty  to  bless  your  life,  if,  in  your  gloom  and 
despair,  a  little  bird  should  come  and  sit  in  the  narrow  slit  in  the  wall 
above  you,  and  sing*  sweet  songs  to  you — a  little  innocent  bird,  with 
heaven's  own  sunshine  on  its  wings  —  would  you  reach  up  there,  to 
where  it  sat  above  you,  and  draw  it  down  into  the  gloom  and  danger, 
gather  it  to  your  heart,  and  try  to  make  your  owrn  love  take  the  place 
to  it  of  the  freedom  it  had  lost,  of  the  sweet  air  of  heaven  it  must 
ivsiirn  for  your  sake  ?  Would  you  ?  Would  it  be  too  selfish  ?  " 

I  looked  up  at  him,  wonderingly.     He  was  gazing  down  upon  me 
with  a  strange  expres- 
sion, inexpressibly  sad, 
and  laid  his  hand  lightly 
upon  my  head. 

"  You  don't  answer, 
and  you  look  half-fright- 
ened ;  and  I'll  tell  you 
what  I  think,"  said  he, 
with  his  tone  suddenly 
changing.  "  I  think  he 
would  be  a  wretch,  a  self- 
ish villain.  And  now, 
mavourneen,  1  want  you 
to  sing  to  me.  Sing  to 
me  about  the  brave 
knight  of  Normandy, 
who  left  his  sweetheart 
and  his  native  land  for 
the  battle-field,  and  died, 

AND   SO   HE   DISAPPEARED. 

shouting  victory." 

He  went  and  stood  in  the  open  hall-door,  and  I  sat  down  to  the 
piano  and  commenced  singing.     I  had  often  sang  to  him  this  old  Eng- 


52  MI88  RICHARDS'  BOY. 

lish  ballad.  But  now,  before  I  had  sung  even  the  first  verse  through,  I 
saw  him,  from  the  open  window,  walking  with  long  strides  through  the 
gate  into  the  park ;  and  so  he  disappeared. 

When  Auntie  discovered  he  was  gone,  she  was  indignant.  "  Here 
it  is  one  o'clock,"  said  she,  "  and  dinner  most  ready,  and  everything 
doing  so  splendid.  It  is  a  shame  and  a  disgrace." 

I  did  not  tell  her  of  his  strange  talk  to  me ;  but  I  joined  with  her 
in  saying,  that  his  conduct  was  "  extremely  strange." 

"  Strange  ?  I  should  say  strange !  Who  ever  saw  a  man  that 
wasn't  strange  ?  "  No  description  can  do  justice  to  her  scornful  empha- 
sis on  the  word  man ;  and  her  face  showed  all  the  depth  of  contempt 
she  felt,  as  she  added,  "  There  haint  no  more  dependence  on  any  of  the 
race  than  there  is  in  my  old  clock."  And  while  she  was  speaking,  as 
if  to  add  force  to  her  illustration,  the  timepiece  struck  nearly  a  hundred. 

And  yet  it  was  strange  that  his  sudden,  singular  way  of  leaving, 
his  absence  did  not  cause  me  disquiet.  I  was  not  at  all  unhappy.  In 
fact,  it  seemed  as  if  some  weight  had  been  lifted  from  my  heart,  as  if  1 
could  breathe  more  easily. 

It  was  in  the  third  week  after  Mr.  Cleveland's  departure  that 
Auntie  took  a  severe  cold,  and  one  day  was  obliged  to  keep  her  bed  the 
most  of  the  day.  She  wouldn't  let  me  stay  at  home.  She  said  it  was 
nothing  but  a  cold,  and  she  should  get  better  soon.  But  when  I  returned 
from  my  school  in  the  afternoon,  I  found  her  apparently  worse.  There 
was  a  certain  herb,  however,  that  grew  on  the  banks  of  the  lake  in 
Creveland  Park,  that  she  professed  to  have  some  faith  in;  and  so  I 
offered  at  once  to  go  and  get  some  of  it.  It  grew  near  the  edge  of  the 
lake ;  and  after  I  had  gathered  my  little  basketful  of  it  I  ought  to  have 
returned  directly ;  but  the  blue,  placid  water,  shining  so  serenely 
through  the  green  leaves  and  boughs,  persuaded  me  to  stay,  and  I  went 
down  to  the  border  of  the  lake  to  gather  some  of  the  lovely  ferns  that 
grew  in  such  rich  profusion. 


MISS  KICHARDS'  BOY. 


53 


There  was  a  great  gnarled  stump  hanging  over  the  water.  On  the 
very  outmost  edge  of  it  was  a  cluster  of  the  most  delicate  and  exquisite 
ferns,  like  dainty  emerald  feathers.  That  bunch,  I  thought,  I  must 
have.  I  stepped  out  confidently,  and  was  stooping  down  to  pick  it, 
when  suddenly,  without  any  warning,  the  root  fell  with  me,  and  I  sank 


I   FELT  MYSELF  LIFTED  UP. 


into  the  deep  waters  below  me.  But,  as  I  fell,  I  gave  a  wild  cry,  that 
rang  through  the  silent  woods. 

"  Claude !  Claude  ! "  was  my  exclamation. 

Why  did  I  not  call  upon  my  hero,  my  mysterious  friend  ?  But  no  ! 
At  that  moment,  when  I  was  facing  death,  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  all  my 
hope  on  earth  was  in  Claude. 

Suddenly  I  felt  myself  lifted  up  in  a  strong  arm,  and  heard  a  voice 
speaking  courage  to  me.  But  I  heard  only  the  first  tones,  for  at  the 
sudden  transition  from  death  to  life,  I  fainted. 


54  MISS  RICHARDS'  BOY. 

When  I  recovered  consciousness,  I  was  lying  on  the  green  shore, 
and  Hugh  Creveland  was  kneeling  beside  me,  chafing  my  cold  fingers. 
As  I  looked  up  at  him  and  tried  to  speak,  he  took  me  in  his  arms,  as  if 
I  were  a  baby,  and  strode  on  toward  Auntie's  with  long  steps.  I  looked 
up  in  his  face  rather  timidly. 

"  I  have  saved  your  life,  little  one,"  he  said.  "  Don't  you  think  I 
ought  to  have  some  claim  upon  it  now  ?  Don't  you,  in  a  way,  belong  to 
me  in  the  future  ? " 

I  was  terribly  agitated  and  confused,  I  know,  and  I  could  think  of 
nothing  better  to  say  than  to  ask  him  to  put  me  down,  and  let  me 
walk. 

"You  couldn't  lift  your  hand  to  your  head  a  minute  ago,"  lie  said. 
"Keep  still.  What  do  you  suppose  Miss  Cobb  will  say?  She  will 
admit  hereafter  that  I  have  '  my  properties,'  will  she  not  ?" 

But  I  insisted  upon  trying  to  walk.  And  seeing  that  it  really 
troubled  me,  he  let  me  have  my  way.  At  first,  I  was  obliged  to  lean 
heavily  upon  his  arm,  for  my  head  felt  very  weak  and  giddy.  We 
walked  a  short  distance  in  silence,  and  then  Mr.  Creveland  said : 

"  I  haven't  been  to  your  house  for  some  time,  have  I  ?  Not  since 
that  day  I  called  for  the  song  about  the  brave  knight,  who  gave  his  life 
and  died  shouting  for  victory.  When  I  left  you,  I  meant  to  stay  away 
from  you,  like  a  good  villain.  But  to-day,  as  I  was  taking  leave  of  the 
Hall  for  a  while,  as  fate,  or  luck,  or  chance  would  have  it,  I  thought, 
while  the  carriage  went  round  the  road  as  far  as  Miss  Cobb's,  I  would 
take  this  short  route  through  the  park,  and  stop  there  and  bid  you  good- 
bye. I  supposed  it  was  the  fiend  that  prompted  me,  as  usual,  he  having 
the  guardianship  of  my  affairs  generally.  But  I  must  have  been  mis- 
taken; it  must  have  been  an  angel.  I  believe  in  omens  ;  and  this  must 
be  a  good  one,  is  it  not  ?  For  I  have  saved  your  precious  life.  Do  you 
know  it,  little  one  ?  And  when  I  think  those  sweet  brown  eyes  would 
never  have  opened  again  in  the  world  had  it  not  been  for  me,  surely 
they  must  look  kindly  upon  me  in  the  future,  will  they  not  ?  " 


MISS  RICHARDS'  BOY.  55 

I  assured  him  that  "  they  would ;  that  I  should  always  regard  him 
kindly."  Not  without  tears,  for  I  felt  weak  and  nervous.  But  he 
would  not  listen  to  any  t hunks  for  what  he  had  done.  And  just  then 
we  came  out  by  Auntie's,  and  saw  Mr.  Cleveland's  carriage  standing  by 
the  gate.  He  went  with  me  to  the  door,  and  looking  down  upon  the 
water-soaked  garments,  said  "he  thought  he  would  drive  back  home  for 
a  few. moments,  to  make  himself  a  little  more  presentable."  And  bid- 
ding me  good-bye,  and  telling  me  to  make  haste  to  put  myself  in  Miss 
Cobb's  kind  hands  at  once,  and  leaving  his  good  wishes  for  her,  he 
sprang  into  his  carriage,  and  was  driven  back  to  the  Hall. 

Auntie,  forgetting  her  own  indisposition,  seemed  to  think  I  was  in 
imminent  danger.  So  I  was  put  to  bed,  in  close  companionship  with 
hot  bricks  and  flat-irons,  while  my  throat  was  smarting  under  the 
effects  of  hot  ginger  and  pepper  tea. 

I  remember  thinking,  as  I  dropped  off  into  sleep,  how  much  it  was 
like  one  of  my  romances  ;  that  my  mysterious  hero  had  actually  res- 
cued me  from  death,  and  that  I  owed  my  life  to  him. 

But  still,  I  recollect  that  I  thought  a  great  deal  more  —  in  fact,  it 
was  my  last  thought  before  I  went  to  sleep,  "  of  what  Claude  would  say 
when  I  told  him  how  nearly  I  had  met  my  death,  and  how  terrible  it 
would  have  been  if  I  had  died  there,  without  seeing  him  once  more." 

It  was  about  a  week  after  Mr.  Creveland  left  the  Hall,  that  I 
received  a  surprise.  It  was  no  less  than  an  invitation  from  the 
"  stony-hearted,"  to  make  them  a  visit. 

The  letter,  however,  bore  no  signs  of  stony-heartedness.  It 
was  warm,  cordial,  sincere.  They  professed  themselves  as  extremely 
anxious  to  see  the  young  lady,  for  whom  their  relative  had  entertained 
such  a  warm  regard. 

I  could  not  refrain  from  marveling  somewhat,  why,  after  they 
had  been  so  successful  in  curbing  their  anxious  desire  to  see  me  for 
over  two  years,  it  had,  at  this  late  hour,  broke  forth  so  overpoweringly. 


56  MISS  RICHARDS'  BOY. 

But  .their  invitation  was  so  pressing,  that  I  did  not  really  know  how 
to  refuse  it ;  and  as  I  had  a  long  vacation  at  that  time,  there  was 
really  no  reason  for  my  refusing. 

My  fine  gowns,  for  which  I  had  no  use  during  my  stay  at  Auntie's, 
needed  only  a  little  making  over  to  do  nicely.  I  told  Auntie  the 
change  would  do  me  good,  and  she  heartily  agreed  with  me,  and  so, 
also,  did  Mr.  Capelin,  who  had  dropped  in  to  try  to  borrow  a  f aiming- 
mill.  I  said  I  would  be  glad  to  see  my  old  home  once  more,  and  I 
really  had  a  strong  curiosity  to  see  the  "  stony-hearted."  I  gave  a 
great  number  of  reasons  why  I  wanted  to  make  the  visit,  but  I  never 
chanced  to  mention  what  I  know  I  thought,  the  first  thing  in  the 
morning,  and  the  last  at  night,  that  I  would  see  Claude  again.  I  said 
to  myself,  that  this  desire  was  only  natural,  for  perhaps  I  could 
influence  him  not  to  work  too  hard.  Perhaps  he  was  getting  into 
bad  habits.  I  thought  I  would  like,  above  all  things,  to  be  a  sort  of 
maternal  guardian  angel  to  him ;  for  if  he  were  my  own  boy,  I  could 
not  be  more  anxious  to  have  him  do  well.  I  invariably  ended  my 
reveries  in  this  way. 

But  there  was  no  need  of  any  apprehension  concerning  him.  I 
found  him  grown  so  manly  and  self-possessed,  that,  instead  of  my 
being  a  protector  to  him,  it  seemed  more  natural  that  he  should  pro- 
tect me.  I  could  hardly,  at  first,  realize  the  change.  I  felt  that  it 
would  be  a  misnomer  to  call  him  my  boy  any  longer.  And  he  was 
respected  and  beloved  by  all,  even  by  the  "  stony-hearted,"  who,  I  dis- 
covered, was  not  stony-hearted  at  all,  only  a  very  good-natured  busi- 
ness man,  much  given  to  gay  society  and  pleasure.  His  wife  was  a 
gentle,  inoffensive  little  woman,  and  they  both  seemed  glad  to  see  me. 

There  was  not  much  of  the  looks  of  my  old  home,  I  found ;  it 
was  much  gayer  and  grander.  They  had  a  great  deal  of  company, 
and  went  much  into  society.  But,  after  all,  Mrs.  Lansing  had  a  way 
of  making  the  house  seem  home-like  and  pleasant,  and  I  enjoyed 


MISS  RICHARDS'  BOY.  57 

myself  quite  well.  I  had  not  been  there  long,  before  I  discovered 
that  I  owed  my  invitation  to  visit  them,  to  Mr.  (Vrveland,  who  was  a 
great  friend  of  theirs.  He  boarded  at  a  hotel  in  the  place. 

It  was  due  to  his  influence,  also,  I  found,  that  Claude  was  made 
so  much  at  home  there.  How  very  good  he  was  to  Claude !  It  really 
warmed  my  heart  to  him.  I  said  to  myself,  I  had  no  idea  there  was 
so  much  goodness  in  human  nature.  Mr.  Creveland  came  often  to 
visit  me.  After  a  time,  I  could  see  that  he  fought  no  more  against 
his  liking  for  me.  His  pride,  as  I  thought  it  was,  that  had  stood  in 
the  way  of  his  love,  yielded  at  last  to  his  passion.  He.  became  more 
devoted  every  day. 

And  I  saw  that  all  my  ambitious  dreams  and  desires  were  likely 
to  be  realized,  that  I  was  in  a  fair  way  of  being  a  rich  man's  wife  — 
just  my  ideal,  too,  a  mysterious,  erratic  lover,  in  truth,  he  was — mis- 
tress of  Creveland  Hall.  Why,  I  had  thought  that  just  to  be  mistress 
of  that  grand  old  mansion,  would  make  perfect  bliss ;  and  so,  of 
course,  I  was  happy.  I  remember  assuring  myself  often  that  1  was 
very  happy,  indeed. 

Claude  came  to  see  me  often  at  first.  But  after  a  while  lie  did 
not  come  so  much  ;  he  was  too  busy,  he  said.  I  told  him  he  was 
killing  himself  with  hard  work,  and  his  pale  face  showed  it.  But 
what  a  brave,  honest  face  it  was !  And  it  grew  still  more  manly  and 
noble  every  day.  But  he  was  evidently  working  too  hard.  What  with 
his  regular  studies,  and  his  study  of  the  law  out  of  school-hours,  it 
pained  me  to  see  it.  But  I  never  thought  to  wonder  why  it  was.  I 
never  asked  why  even  the  lightest  fancy  that  he  was  ill,  or  suffering 
in  any  way,  sent  such  a  pang  to  my  heart.  Why,  when  Mr.  Creve- 
land was  my  hero,  the  very  personification  of  my  romantic  visions,  the 
thought  of  his  danger,  which  the  doctor  still  prophesied,  I  could 
endure  calmly,  while  the  thought  of  Claude's  suffering  seemed  to  me 
harder  than  to  suffer  myself. 


58  MISS  RICHARDS'  BOY. 

But  Claude  laughed  at  my  anxious  face,  and  my  sage  advice.  He 
said  he  was  all  right,  that  he  was  getting  along  splendidly ;  that  by 
the  time  he  left  college,  he  should  have  a  very  good  knowledge  of 
the  law  ;  should  have  to  spend  only  a  short  time  in  the  law  office,  so 
Mr.  Lansing  told  him. 

"And  then,"  said  he  to  me,  one  evening,  as  we  chanced  to  be 
alone  for  a  few  minutes,  "  then  I  shall  have  all  the  world  before  me. 
1  suppose  by  that  time  you  will  be  my  Lady  Creveland." 

I  said  nothing,  either  to  deny  it,  or  acknowledge  it ;  and  Claude 
was  silent  for  a  moment,  while  his  blue  eyes  looked  searchingly,  but 
very  sadly,  into  mine,  and  then  he  added  :  — 

4fc  Yes,  you  wdll  be  a  grand  lady,  and  I  —  I  shall  be  a  poor  man, 
lonely  and  hard-working.  And  being  rather  a  soft-hearted  fellow,  wrho 
would  love  a  happy  home,  why,  I  shall  probably  be  looking  for  the 
little  blue-eyed  maiden  that  you  used  to  advise  me  to  wait  for." 

"What  is  the  use  of  being  so  extremely  foolish,  Claude?"  said 
I,  with  unnecessary  tartness. 

"Why,  it  was  your  own  advice,  Eva " 

"  I  can  see  no  good  reason  for  your  recalling  every  idiotic  tiling 
I  may  have  said  in  the  past.  Life  has  nobler  and  wiser  duties  to 
perform  than  searching  for  eyes  of  different  colors."  And  I  remem- 
ber I  talked  considerably,  and  very  seriously,  to  him  concerning  life, 
its  duties  and  responsibilities.  It  was  not  a  very  long  lecture,  how- 
ever, for  Mrs.  Lansing,  coming  in,  interrupted  our  conversation. 

Knowing  Mr.  Cleveland's  restless,  unquiet  nature  so  well,  it  did 
not  surprise  me  so  much,  when,  after  I  had  been  at  Mrs.  Lansing's 
about  five  wreeks,  he  should  be  overtaken  with  one  of  his  dissatisfied, 
restless  moods,  and  finally  should  go  away  suddenly  and  abruptly,  leav- 
ing no  word  where  he  was  going,  or  when  he  was  coming  back. 

Good-natured  Mrs.  Lansing  rallied  me  a  little,  on  the  sudden 
absence  of  my  admirer.  But  she,  although  comparatively  a  new 


MISS  RICHARDS'  EOT.  59 

acquaintance,  was  familiar  with  his  erratic  ways,  and  said  he  would 
probably  return  as  suddenly  as  he  went. 

But  I  found  life,  notwithstanding  his  absence,  very  pleasant  and 
delightful.  There  was  a  constant  succession  of  boat-rides,  picnics, 
croquet,  and  evening  parties ;  and  I  found  I  could  enjoy  them  all ;  for 
Claude  always  went  when  I  did. 

Mr.  Creveland  had  been  gone  just  one  week,  when  I  rose,  one 
morning,  with  a  severe  headache,  and  so  was  unable  to  go  to  a  picnic 
that  we  had  planned  for  that  day.  I  made  Mrs.  Lansing  go,  how- 
ever, telling  her  all  I  needed  was  rest,  and  that  a  good  sleep  would 
make  my  head  feel  as  well  as  ever.  It  did ;  for  in  the  afternoon  I 
woke  up  entirely  refreshed. 

The  afternoon  was  nearly  gone,  and  I  stood  by  a  window,  looking 
dreamily  out,  listening  to  the  murmur  of  the  fountain  in  the  yard 
below,  when  I  heard  a  quick  step  in  the  hall,  and  in  a  moment  a 
servant  ushered  Mr.  Creveland  into  my  presence.  He  had  returned, 
it  seemed,  as  suddenly,  and  abruptly,  as  he  had  gone.  He  came 
directly  up  to  me,  and  took  one  of  my  hands  in  both  of  his  own, 
saying :  — 

"  Are  you  glad  to  see  me  ? " 

I,  of  ^course,  said  some  polite,  commonplace  words ;  but,  as  I  did 
so,  I  looked  up  in  his  face.-  The  old  unquiet,  restless  look  was  gone, 
and  its  place  was  one  of  stern  resolve.  He  still  held  my  hand,  and 
his  grasp  was  almost  painful. 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  what  I  have  come  back  for?"  he  said;  and 
without  waiting  for  an  answer,  he  went  on.  "  I  have  come  back  for 
you,  little  one.  I  tried  to  run  away,  not  from  you,  but  from  myself, 
from  fate.  But  your  sweet,  brown  eyes  have  been  stronger  than  my 
will.  They  have  drawn  me  back  to  you,  little  one.  Will  yoti  come 
to  me  ?  Can  I  make  you  happy  ?  I  love  you,  I  love  you." 

Surely,  this  was   all  I  had   dreamed    of,  had   hoped   for.     To  be 


60  MISS  RICHARDS'  BOY. 

mistress  of  Creveland  Hall,  the  chosen  one  of  my  romantic,  mysterious 
lover !  Why,  then,  did  my  heart  sink  down  so  low  at  the  thought  of 
that  grand  future?  Sink  so  low,  as  his  trembling  voice  went  on:  — 

"  My  life  has  been  full  of  fancies,  but  for  the  first  time  I  love 
passionately,  with  all  my  strength  and  heart.  No  woman  was  ever 
to  me  what  you  are,  so  pure,  so  unworldly,  so  innocent.  I  am  not 
like  you,  God  knows ;  but  your  sweet  love  shall  make  me  better. 
This  little  hand,"  and  he  raised  it  to  his  lips,  and  kissed  it,  "this 
dear  hand  shall  rule  me  at  will." 

It  was  all  coming  true,  then,  all  the  old  dream.  And  my  hand 
was  the  one  destined  to  guide  him,  save  him.  How  I  had  dreamed 
of  this !  And  in  my  vision  it  had  been  such  a  delightful  and  satis- 
factory task.  Why,  then,  did  it  seem  suddenly  so  utterly  distasteful 
and  impossible  ?  I  withdrew  my  hand  from  his,  and  turning  away, 
looked  out  into  the  gathering  shadows.  I  suppose  my  silence  gave 
him  hope.  He  thought  I  was  too  shy  to  speak,  to  look  at  him. 

"Tell,  me,  Eva,  could  you  love  me  well  enough  to  leave  home 
and  country  for  my  sake  ?  To  let  me  be  all  the  world  to  you,  as  you 
would  be  to  me  ?  Will  you  be  my  own,  my  beauty,  rny  darling  ? " 

Afterwards,  I  remembered  that  he  did  not  say  the  word  wife  to 
me,  but  I  did  not  notice  it  at  the  time.  He  took  my  hands  in  his 
again,  very  tenderly. 

"  If  you  will  consent  to  bless  my  life  with  your  sweet  presence, 
everything  that  wealth  can  give  you  shall  be  yours,"  he  said.  "  There 
are  lovelier  lands  than  this,  my  darling.  We  will  leave  this  dull, 
wretched  country ;  I  hate  it  all.  We  will  go  to  some  brighter  clime, 
and  there  be  happy." 

I  thought  of  Creveland  Hall,  and  its  stately  beauty  and  magnifi- 
cence ;  and  I  said,  almost  without  thought  that  I  was  thinking 
aloud :  — 

"There  can  be  no  place  lovelier  than  Creveland  Hall." 


MISS  RICHARDS'  BOY.  61 

u  I  hate  Crcvcland  Hall ! "  said  he,  with  a  sudden  frown.  But 
his  tone  softened  again  immediately. 

"  You  shall  live  there,  after  a  time,  if  you  like.  You  shall  choose 
your  own  home,  my  beauty.  You  shall  be  queen,  and  I  will  be  your 
slave." 

Smooth,  and  fair,  and  rosy,  stretched  the  path  before  me.  The 
door  of  my  Spanish  castle  stood  open.  What  was  it  that  barred  my 
entrance  ?  What  was  dearer  to  me  than  grandeur  or  glory  ?  A  form 
stood  before  me  that  would  not  let  me  pass.  Now  that  I  was  free 
to  choose,  now  that  the  moment  had  come  that  I  must  choose  my 
future,  I  well  knew  that  one  curl  of  Claude's  brown  hair  was  dearer 
to  me  than  all  the  world  beside. 

Mr.  Creveland  was  looking  into  my  face  intently.  I  could  ni'vrv 
hide  my  emotions. 

"  Tell  me ;  I  can  bear  it.  Tell  me,  for  God's  sake !  Is  it  that 
you  can't  love  me?" 

My  tears  were  falling  now,  partly  in  pity  for  the  pain  in  his  face ; 
partly,  I  think,  for  my  old  dreams  of  splendor  and  glory,  that  were 
vanishing. 

"  Do  you  love  some  one  else  ?     Tell  me  the  truth." 

"I  — I  am  afraid— I  think  I  do." 

"Who  is  it?" 

His  look  always  compelled  my  obedience. 

"Claude.     Claude  Richards." 

He  looked  at  me  silently,  with  a  look  I  never  saw  on  his  face, 
as  changeable  as  it  always  was.  Then  he  said,  sternly,  more  as  if  he 
was  questioning  time  and  eternity,  than  me :  — 

"  Do  you  believe  in  retribution  ?  Do  you  believe  in  these  old 
words,  'Vengeance  is  mine,  saith  the  Lord?'  I  do.  If  you  ever 
hear  them  doubted  again  by  any  one,  tell  them  there  was  OIK*  man 
who  believed  them  to  be  truth,  knew  them  to  be  true  as  sorrow." 


62  MISS  RICHARDS'  BOY. 

He  clasped  me  for  a  moment  in  his  arms,  and  I  felt  his  hot 
breath,  his  kisses  on  my  face ;  and  then  he  almost  threw  me  from 
him,  and  left  the  room  and  the  house. 

And  so  my  one  grand  lover  vanished,  and  the  walls  of  my  ideal 
castle  fell  into  ruins.  I  passed  slowly  into  the  garden,  and  stood, 
listening  to  the  dreamy  murmur  of  the  fountain,  and  thinking  of 
Claude,  when  suddenly  I  heard  a  step  beside  me,  and  looking  up,  I 
saw  the  visible  reality  of  my  thoughts  standing  there  before  me. 

"  I  found  the  doors  all  open,  so  I  walked  in,"  he  said. 

I  made  no  reply.  I  only  smiled  upon  his  face.  It  was  so  delight- 
ful to  see  him  again;  to  look  into  his  clear,  honest  eyes,  that  held  no 
mystery  or  remorse ;  to  meet  his  warm,  true  hand-clasp ;  and  to  know 
that  nothing  separated  us  now,  if  he  willed  it  so.  But  his  blue  eyes 
looked  rather  sad  and  weary  to-night. 

"  Mr.  Creveland  has  returned,  it  seems.  I  met  him  by  the  gate/' 
he  said. 

"  Yes ;   he  has  just  gone  from  here." 

"  Is  it  true,  then,  Eva,  what  every  one  says  ? "  he  asked,  with  a 
trembling  voice. 

"  He  has  asked  me  to  marry  him." 

He  did  not  speak. 

"  You  are  his  friend,  Claude.     Tell  me,  would  you  accept  him  ?  " 

Suddenly  he  let  go  my  hand,  which  he  had  held  till  then. 

"  He  has  been  good  to  me.     I  can't  advise  you." 

I  could  not  bear  the  pain  in  his  voice,  in  his  honest  eyes. 

"  I  have  refused  him,"  I  cried.     "  Can  you  guess  the  reason  ? " 

How  his  face  lit  up !     He  caught  my  hands  again  in  his. 

u  I  refused  him,  because  I  love  somebody  else." 

His  lips  were  very  near  my  face,  as  he  whispered  his  next  words, 
too  dear,  too  sacred  to  repeat. 


MISS  RICHARDS'  BOY. 


63 


We  stood  there  a  long  while 
in  the  sweet  moonlight,  as  ridicu- 
lously hopeful  and  happy  as  love 
and  poverty  could  make  us.  We 
made  great  plans  for  the  future, 
or  he  did,  for  I  had  quite  lost  my 
old  flow  of  eloquence,  and  preferred 
listening  to  him  to  speaking.  We 
should  IK;  poor,  of  course,  at  first. 
But  our  little  home  should  hold 
such  happiness,  such  rest,  such 
sweet  content.  He  whispered  how 
he  would  care  for  me,  would  shield 
me,  work  for  me.  And  though  he 
had  no  wealth  to  offer  me,  surely 
such  a  true  love  as  his  must  bring 
a  blessing  down  from  on  high.  But 
as  for  me,  I  thought  if  I  could  only 
be  with  him,  and  make  him  happy, 
it  would  be  happiness  enough  for  me. 

After  he  had  left  me,  I  went 
up  into  my  room,  a  happy  woman, 
although  I  had  just  renounced  a  for- 
tune, and  pledged  myself  to  a  life  of 
poverty  and  privation.  Mrs.  Lan- 
sing had  not  come  yet,  but  I  ex- 
pected her  every  minute.  And  it 
was  time  to  dress  for  their  late  din- 
ner. But  as  I  was  entering  my 
room,  a  servant  handed  me  a  letter 
that  had  just  come  for  me.  In 


64  MISS  RICHARDS'  EOT. 

that  letter  was  a  strange  revelation  that  drove  all  other  thoughts  out  of 
my  head.     It  was  from  Auntie,  and  exceedingly  lengthy,  as  all  of  her 
epistles  were.     It  seemed  to  be  written  in  great  excitement,  and    read 
as  follows : 
''My  DEAR  GIRL: 

"As  I  have  heerd  tell,  it  comin'  right  straight  to  me  from  them  that  wont  lie,  that 
a  villain,  that  shan't  be  named  between  us  two,  made  his  black  soul  blacker  than  it  was 
before,  by  tryin'  like  a  black  wolf  to  devour  a  helpless  lamb,  that  I  needn't  mention 
the  name  of.  This  is  to  tell  you  to  shun  him  as  you  would  a  SERPIENT." 

This  word  was  written  in  larger  letters  than  any  of  the  rest  of  the 
letter.  It  was  underscored  deeply,  and  spelled  just  as  she  would  have 
pronounced  it,  "  serpient."  I  know  it  impressed  me  much  more  deeply 
than  it  would  had  it  been  spelt  in  the  usual  way. 

"  Shun  him  as  you  would  a  serpient,  whose  bite  means  death.  It  has  all  come  to 
light,  all  his  villainy  unexpected.  She  bein'  took  half-crazy  with  the  shock  of  heerin' 
of  it,  and  most  dead  every  way.  The  gardner  come  after  me  in  the  dead  of  night. 
And  she  let  it  all  out  to  me.  And  she  is  his  lawful  wife,  and  lays  at  the  pint  of  death ; 
and  Miss  Richards'es  boy  is  Hugh  Creveland's  own  son.  He  married  her  at  college,  a 
poor  girl  just  over  from  England,  with  nothing  but  her  beauty  and  principles,  that  he 
couldn't  overthrow  and  trample  under.  So  he  married  her,  but  made  her  swear  not  to 
tell,  kept  her  hid  in  a  little  cottage  out  in  the  country,  where  none  of  his  friends  ever 
mistrusted  her  ont.  But  afterward,  when  Claude  was  a  little  fellow,  he  made  her  think 
it  was  a  sham  marriage.  And  she  a  livin',  crushed  down  under  the  idee  all  her  days, . 
but  still  a  lovin'  the  scamp  so  well  that  she  come  here  as  his  housekeeper,  a  pretendin' 
to  be  a  widow,  jest  to  run  the  chance  of  seein'  of  him  now  and  then.  But  lately,  only 
a  few  days  ago,  she  come  across  some  papers  that  proved  the  hull  thing  out,  letters 
from  the  minister  that  married  'em,  a  friend  of  his  then.  And  after  ruinin'  her  hull 
life,  agonizin'  her  with  thoughts  of  her  false  marriage,  and  chasin'  after  other  women 
promiscous,  and  never  darin'  to  marry  any  girl  outright  —  the  shame-faced  black  vil- 
lain—  she  worships  the  very  ground  he  walks  on,  which  I  can't  help  callin'  her  a 
natural  fool,  though,  as  I  say,  she  lays  at  the  pint  of  death,  and  the  boy  been  wrote  to 
to-day  by  the  doctor,  to  come  home  quick  if  he  wants  to  see  her  alive,  and  that  serpient 
wrote  to  by  the  same;  though  there  would  be  but  a  precious  few  letters  writ  to  him  on 
the  subject  if  there  wasn't  but  one  woman  in  the  world  to  write  'em,  as  I  told  Mr. 
Capelin,  jest  now,  who  happened  in  to  borrow  a  wagon  exeltry.  (How  did  he  suppose 


MISS  RICHARDS'  BOY.  65 

I  would  have  a  e.xeltry?)  But  lie  agreed  with  me  about  the  serpicnt,  though  he  says 
the  letter  wont  give  him  much  comfort,  for  he  presumed  the  doctor  give  it  to  him  up 
and  down,  lie  in' so  worked  up  liy  seein'  that  dyin' woman.  And  now  I  will  end  this 
epistol  by  warniu' of  you  again  —  though,  probable,  after  you  read  this,  there  wont  be 
no  nerd  of  it  —  if  you  value  your  own  soul's  salvation  in  this  world,  or  in  any  other 
world  whaKumever,  to  *//////  tit  at  serpicnt !  And  if  you  want  to  make  me  happy  a*  a 
queen  on  her  throne.  e< <me  home  here  to  OIK  e.  When  I  can  lay  my  hands  on  your 
pretty  bead,  1  shall  fed  safer  about  you.  And  let  me  once  get  you  here,  and  then  let 
that  wolf,  that  *<  rjn'ciif  eonir  aiiear,  if  he  dans,  the  house  of 

"  Yours  truly, 

"Pmsru.KA   A.   Cnr.r,." 

That  niulil  I  received  a  hasty  note  from  Claude,  enclosing  the 
letter  tin-  doctor  had  written  him,  and  saying  lie  had  just  time  to  catch 
the  tr:iin  tor  liome.  ]5ut,  with  all  his  ha>te.  lie  did  not  iivi  there  in 
time  to  see  his  mother  alive.  He  arrived  in  the  morning,  and  she  died 
at  midnight.  The  patient  heart  was  still,  the  only  true,  faithful  heart 
that  Hugh  Creveland  had  ever  known,  and  yet  had  scorned.  She  left 
many  l<»vinir  messages  for  Claude;  said  she  was  willing* to  die;  but, 
being  a  timid,  shrinking  little  woman,  she  said  she  was  afraid  to  go 
alone.  The  doctor  thought  her  mind  was  wandering,  she  asked  him  so 
many  strange  questions :  "  What  should  she  see  first  after  she  closed 
her  eyes  here  ?  Would  she  be  afraid  ?  Would  He  meet  her — the  Gen- 
tle One,  the  Saviour  of  sinners  ?  Would  she  see  Him  alone,  or  would 
there  be  a  great  crowd  for  her  to  enter  alone  ?  She  was  afraid.  How 
could  she  go  alone  ? " 

The  doctor  soothed  her  as  well  as  he  could.  "  She  was  delirious," 
he  whispered  to  Auntie,  who  told  me  all  this  afterward.  But  it  was 
just  at  midnight  that  she  looked  up  and  smiled  pleasantly,  and  said,  as 
if  greeting  a  fellow-voyager: 

«  Why,  Hugh  !  " 

And  so  she  died  with  a  smile  on  her  lips. 

The  strangest  part  of  my  story  remains  to  be  told.  The  morning 
after  her  death,  a  servant,  at  the  hotel  where  Mr.  Creveland  was  stay- 
5 


QQ  MISS  RICHARDS'  BOY. 

ing,  tried  to  enter  his  room,  but  could  not.  They  knocked  repeatedly, 
but  could  get  no  reply.  Finally,  becoming  alarmed,  they  forced  the 
door,  and  found  him  lying  on  the  bed,  quite  dead.  The  doctor  said  he 
had  probably  died  about  midnight.  The  letter  from  the  doctor  at  Cold- 
brook,  filled  with  reproaches  for  his  villainy,  which  was  unmasked  at 
last,  lay  on  the  stand  by  his  bed,  and  by  it  was  a  little  bottle  containing 
laudanum.  Excited  and  agitated  as  he  must  have  been  by  the  contents 
of  the  letter,  he  might  only  have  taken  enough  to  ensure  a  night's 
sleep ;  he  might  have  taken  enough  to  ensure  the  longer,  quieter  sleep. 
No  one  knew,  or  will  ever  know.  No  one  could  say  with  certainty  that 
he  had  committed  suicide ;  and  the  doctor  who  attended  him  at 
Auntie's  testified  that  he  had  been  liable  to  die  suddenly  any  time  since 
his  fall  from  the  horse.  It  was  a  mystery  that  could  never  be  solved. 
But  the  two  lives,  so  strangely  blent  together  here,  went  out  together 
to  meet  the  Unknown,  to  meet  the  strange  mystery  of  the  hereafter. 

He  was  buried  in  the  vault  of  the  Gray  Stone  church,  at  the  west- 
ern extremity  of  Creveland  Park,  where  so  many  of  the  Crevelands 
sleep.  And  beside  the  tablet,  on  which  is  written  his  name  and  age,  is 
another,  bearing  this  inscription  : 

EDITH  RICHARDS  CREVELAND 
WIFE  OF  HUGH  CREVELAND. 

Itequiescat  In  Pace. 

I  did  as  Auntie  directed  me  to  do  in  her  letter.  I  went  home  that 
week,  although  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lansing  seemed  loth  to  have  me  leave, 
and  urged  me  again  to  return  soon,  with  a  kindness  that  touched  my 
heart.  But  the  awfulness  of  the  terrible  tragedy,  for  so  it  seemed  to 
me,  of  these  two  sudden  deaths,  made  me  nearly  sick,  and  I  longed  for 
home. 

Claude  had  written  me  a  hasty  note  the  day  after  his  mother's 
death.  It  was  but  a  few  words,  for  I  could  see  he  was  half  wild  with 
the  shock  and  with  the  added  excitement  of  the  strange  story.  lie 


MISS  RICHARDS'  EOT.  67 

urged  me  to  come  home  as  soon  as  possible,  for  he  said  he  "  should  feel 
that  he  was  alone  in  the  world,  if  it  were  not  for  me." 

It  was  at  noon,  on  the  day  after  the  double  funeral,  that  I  reached 
Auntie's.  She  saw  me  come  through  the  gate,  and  hurried  down  the 
flower-bordered  path  to  meet  me,  greeting  me  with  more  tenderness 
than  I  had  ever  known  her  to  show  before.  Something  had  softened 
her  wonderfully. 

She  did  not  call  Mr.  Creveland  a  "  serpient "  once,  although  I  told 
her  all,  in  answer  to  her  earnest  inquiries.  But  I  did  not  like  to  talk 
of  this  ;  for,  when  1  thought  of  the  irreparable  injury  he  was  medi- 
tating toward  me,  my  heart  grew  like  ice,  and  I  marveled  at  the 
strange  power  of  love,  that  had  caused  another  woman,  whose  whole 
life  he  had  laid  waste,  to  worship  him  to  the  last.  Surely,  there  must 
have  been  some  good  in  him,  or  she  could  not  have  done  this,  I  said. 

Auntie  told  me  of  the  last  hours  and  the  death  of  Mrs.  Richards, 
or  Mrs.  Creveland,  as  we  constantly  forgot  to  call  her.  And  she  talked 
much  about  Claude,  how  good  and  noble  he  had  appeared  through  it  all. 
But  she  said  he  was  just  about  sick,  and  she  must  go  over  and  see  him 
right  away  after  dinner.  And  then  —  for  I  thought  it  would  be  wrong 
to  conceal  anything  from  so  kind  a  friend  —  I  told  her  of  my  engage- 
ment to  Claude.  Her  delight  at  this  was  unbounded.  She  was  usually 
very  undemonstrative ;  but  now  she  rose  up,  and  flung  her  arms  around 
my  neck,  and  kissed  me  on  both  cheeks. 

"If  I  could  have  made  a  feller  with  my  own  hands,"  she  said, 
"  and  all  his  surroundings  and  worldly  habits,  I  couldn't  have  fixed  on 
one  to  suit  me  any  neater  for  you  than  Claude.  Why,  he  suited  to 
a  T."  "T"  was  always  her  strongest  expression  of  satisfaction  with 
anything.  No  one,  by  any  combination  of  fortunate  circumstances, 
could  ever  hope  to  rise  higher  in  her  estimation  than  to  a  "  T." 

Auntie's  unqualified  approbation,  and  her  warm  praises  of  Claude, 
would  have  given  me  great  delight,  had  she  stopped  there.  But  she 


68  MISS  RICHARDS'  BOY. 

could  not  cease  talking  about  it ;  and  at  the  dinner-table  she  would 
constantly  commence  breaking  out  in  strong  expressions  of  intense  sat- 
isfaction, and  then,  glancing  at  Jane,  would  cease  instantly,  with  the 
effect  of  driving  Jane  nearly  wild  with  curiosity.  And  after  Jane  had 
left  the  room,  she  commenced  agaiii;  instantly: 

"To  think  that  my  little  girl,  that  I  have  always  loved  so  well, 
should  make  such  a  match!  Why,  Claude  Richards  —  or  Claude 
Creveland,  I  mean — will  be  as  rich  as  a  Jew.  He  could  take  his  pick 
amongst  the  richest  in  the  land.  There  haiut  a  girl  in  the  country, 
amongst  the  richest  and  the  grandest,  but  what  would  jump  at  the 
chance  of  marrying  him.  And  to  think  that  my  little  girl  should  be 
mistress  of  Creveland  Hall  !  Why,  it  is  almost  too  good  to  believe ! " 

But  these  words  of  Auntie's,  although  intended  to  give  me  delight, 
filled  me  with  a  vague  disquiet.  We  had  seemed  so  near  to  each 
other,  he  had  seemed  so  much  like  a  part  of  my  own  life,  that  the 
thought  of  his  wealth  had  not  appeared  like  any  possible  barrier 
between  us.  But  now — now  Auntie's  words  had  wakened  strange 
fears,  vague  distrust. 

But  my  thoughts  were  interrupted  by  Auntie's  next  words,  deliv- 
ered with  an  exceedingly  embarrassed  and  conscious  manner. 

"  I  have  got  something  myself  that  I  may  as  well  tell  you  first  as 
last,"  she  said. 

I  told  her  I  was  all  attention,  and  should  be  glad  to  listen  to  "  any- 
thing that  interested  her." 

"  Wall,  then,"  said  she,  "  come  out  with  me  to  feed  the  corset." 

It  was  an  invincible  habit  of  Auntie's  to  feed  "  the  corset "  imme- 
diately after  her  own  dinner,  and  neither  joyful  nor  sorrowful  events 
were  sufficient  to  break  up  this  long-established  usage.  I  put  on  my 
garden-hat,  hanging,  as  usual,  in  its  accustomed  place  by  the  back  door, 
and  Auntie,  taking  her  little  pail  of  milk  in  her  hand,  put  on  her  sun-- 
bonnet,  pulling  it  further,  I  thought,  over  her  face  than  I  had  ever 


MISS  RICHARDS'  EOT.  69 

known  her  to.  We  walked  along  in  silence  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then 
she  broke  out  suddenly  : 

"  I  may  as  well  tell  you,  first  as  last — " 

Here  she  stopped  abruptly,  and  tried,  but  vainly,  to  pull  the  sun- 
bonnet  over  her  face  a  little  further.  Three  times  she  got  as  far  in  her 
story  as  this,  and  stopped.  But  at  last  she  said,  with  her  face  perfectly 
invisible,  and  her  voice  coming  from  the  depths  of  gingham: 

"  You  have  got  to  know  it,  and  I  may  as  well  tell  you,  first  as  last. 
lid  brought  the  news  to  me  —  Mr.  Capelin,  you  know — of  Mr.  Creve- 
land's  death ;  and  knowing  that  she  lay  dead,  too,  up  to  the  Hall,  every- 
thing seemed  so  awful  and  lonesome,  that  he — I  mean  —  that  I —  You 
know,  it  was  on  the  age  of  the  evenin',  a  thunder-storm  a  comin'  up — 
everything  seemed  so  dretful  and  mysterious,  and  kinder  loose  and 
uncertain  like —  My  old  clock  struck  forty  right  there  at  the  time. 
Everything  seemed  so  curious  and  awful  like,  that — " 

Here  she  stopped  suddenly  again,  and  I  saw  that  she  would  never 
get  the  words  out.  But  the  spirit  of  prophecy  was  upon  me,  and  I  took 
up  her  dropped  burden  of  speech. 

"  You  felt  that  you  were  alone,  in  a  great,  cold,  uncertain  world ; 
and  when  a  good  man  offered  you  the  rest  and  protection  of  an  honest 
love,  you  accepted  it." 

The  sun-bonnet  never  wavered  in  the  least  from  its  direct  line  of 
straightforwardness,  but  a  voice  came  from  the  depths  again: 

"Yes,  something  like  that."  And  then,  in  rather  an  apologetic 
tone,  she  continued: 

"And  I,  a  bein'  wore  out  with  his  traipsin'  here,  day  after  day, 
a  ma  kin'  errents,  tryin'  to  borrow  everything  under  the  sun  and  moon, 
and  things  no  earthly  woman  everhearn  of- 

I  grasped  her  hands,  and  invaded  the  sun-bonnet  to  kiss  her  warmly. 

"  You  have  my  best  wishes,  Auntie.  I  know  you  will  be  happy. 
He  is  one  of  the  best  men  I  ever  knew." 


70  MISS  RICHARDS'  BOT. 

"  He  has  his  properties." 

Her  tone  was  cool  as  usual,  but  her  returning  kisses  were  warm. 
We  had  reached  the  lane  by  this  time,  and  Auntie  commenced  talking 
about  the  "  corset,"  and  her  "  garding,"  and  other  secular  matters,  and 
said  no  more  about  Mr.  Capelin;  but  I  could  see  the  light  of  a  new 
happiness  in  her  eyes. 

Later,  I  learned  what  his  errand  had  been  to  Auntie's,  when  he 
finally  persuaded  her  to  cease  being  "  balky  "  and  "  shying  off."  It  was 
to  borrow  an  iron  instrument  to  remove  stones  and  landmarks.  I  think 
Auntie  called  it  a  "  hand-speak." 

After  we  returned  to  the  house,  Auntie  proceeded  to  carry  out  the 
plan  she  had  spoken  of.  She  excused  herself  for  leaving  me  so  soon, 
but  said  "  she  had  laid  out  to  go  over  there  that  afternoon,  for  she  was 
afraid  Claude  was  going  to  be  bed-sick." 

I  told  her  to  go  by  all  means,  and  I  would  like  to  send  a  little  note 
to  him ;  and  she,  of  course,  was  delighted  to  take  it.  I  had  not 
answered  his  letter  to  me,  for,  by  some  delay,  it  had  only  reached  me 
the  day  before  I  came  home.  But  now  I  wrote  him  how  earnestly  and 
sincerely  my  sympathy  was  with  him  in  his  trouble.  But  I  added,  I 
could  not  wait  a  moment  without  telling  him  the  thoughts  that  Auntie's 
words  had  aroused  in  my  mind.  I  told  him,  that  when  he  offered  him- 
self to  me  we  were  both  poor,  equals  in  hopeful  and  loving  poverty. 
But  now  we  were  not  equals ;  I  was  poor,  and  he  was  rich.  And  he 
could  now,  if  he  so  desired,  form  a  connection  with  the  highest  and 
proudest  in  the  land,  and  therefore  he  was  free.  And,  whatever  course 
he  took,  he  "  might  be  sure  I  would  never  blame  him,  but  should 
always,  as  now,  hold  him  in  tender  and  loving  remembrance." 

And  what  answer  did  I  receive  to  these  words,  written  earnestly 
and  sincerely,  I  know,  but  not  without  tears  ? 

I  was  in  the  garden,  trying  to  forget  it  all,  seeking  forgetfulness  in  \ 
occupation.     I  was  tying  up  my  roses.     The  traces  of  tears  were  still 


MISS  RICHARDS'  BOY.  71 

on  my  face,  when  I  heard  a  quick  step  behind  me,  and,  looking  up,  I 
saw,  what  has  blessed  me  all  my  years  since,  Claude's  true,  faithful 
rvrs,  full  of  love  and  tenderness. 

The  Hall  has  been  remodeled  into  a  perfect  bower  of  beauty,  and 
there  are  two  little  restless  forms  that  flit  through  the  winding  galleries 
and  make  the  lofty  rooms  ring  with  their  gay  voices,  almost  startling,  1 
am  afraid,  the  grim  knights  in  armor  with  their  happy  laughter.  There 
is  another  picture  hanging  now  by  the  side  of  Hugh  Cleveland's.  Not 
the  white-faced,  gloomy  woman  that  we  remembered,  but  a  bright,  beau- 
1  if ul,  girlish  face,  painted  from  an  ivory  miniature  that  Claude  found  in 
Mr.  Cleveland's  desk.  Little  Edith  will  tell  strangers : 

"  That  is  my  own  grandma,  that  I  was  named  for." 

Auntie  Capelin  is  the  children's  special  delight.  To  spend  a  day 
with  her,  to  be  petted  by  her  and  her  husband  and  the  faithful  Jane, 
who  still  lives  with  her,  is  happiness  enough  for  them.  Auntie  is 
hale  and  happy,  and  makes  a  cozy,  comfortable  home  for  her  husband. 
And  he,  out  of  the  depths  of  his  content,  still,  as  of  old,  finds  food  for 
philosophical  reflection.  Whenever  I  see  him,  he  never  fails  to  say  to 
me,  in  a  confidential  tone  : 

"  Curious,  haint  it  ?  Who'd  think,  to  see  her  now,  drawin'  so 
stiddy  in  the  harness,  movin'  right  straight  along,  straight  as  a  string, 
and  happy  as  you  please — who  would  ever  suppose  that  she  used  to  shy 
off  so  and  be  so  balky  ?  Curious !  " 


WHAT   DO    YOU    MEAN?" 


LOYD  SHERMAN  was  the  adopted  son  of 
a  very  rich  man.  Very  wealthy  and  very 
indulgent  was  old  Dr.  Sherman,  and  his 
whole  heart  was-  set  upon  the  boy.  But 
he  did  not  spoil  him,  he  had  views  of  his 
own  in  regard  to  education  ;  and  Floyd  Sher- 
man early  learned  that  he  must  rely  upon  himself.  His  adopted  father 
while  Floyd  was  yet  a  child  left  his  native  town  and  moved  to  a 
large  Eastern  city,  where  he  acquired  a  large  fortune.  He  lived  long 
enough  to  prove  that  his  plan  was  a  success.  He  saw  the  boy  grow 
up  a  noble  man,  honored  and  respected  by  all ;  then  he  died  and  left 
his  large  fortune  to  his  dear  child,  who  used  it  well  and  wisely. 

For  young  Dr.  Sherman,  taught  by  the  precepts  and  example  of 
his  benefactor,  looked  upon  the  poor  and  wretched  as  those  God  had 
left  to  the  care  of  His  more  successful  and  happy  children.  He 
thought  the  strong  ought  to  bear  the  burdens  of  the  weak.  He 
looked  upon  his  great  wealth  as  a  talent  God  had  given  him  on  trust, 
not  to  be  used  solely  for  his  own  gratification  and  glory,  but  us  ;i  loan 
for  which  he  would  surely  have  to  give  an  account  to  its  real  owner. 

(73) 


74  THE  OUTCAST. 

Not  an  ascetic  was  he  by  any  means.  He  did  not  think  that 
the  kind  All-Father  would  have  placed  so  much  beauty  in  His  chil- 
dren's pathway  below,  if  it  were  wrong  for  them  to  enjoy  it.  He 
had  a  beautiful  home,  filled  with  treasures  of  art.  He  was  indeed 
a  very  happy  man,  as  I  think  one  can  hardly  fail  to  be  who  lives  a 
full,  complete  life,  in  all  the  higher,  nobler  range  of  his  faculties. 

This  fortunate  doctor  had  won,  too,  the  sweetest  maiden  in  all 
the  country  for  his  promised  wife.  Maud  Willoughby  was  a  beauty 
and  an  heiress ;  but  Dr.  Sherman  had  borne  her  off  triumphantly  from 
a  crowd  of  suitors,  and  he  considered  himself  a  very  happy  and  for- 
tunate man  in  so  doing ;  for  he  knew  the  loveliness  of  her  soul  far 
transcended  the  beauty  of  her  face.  She  was,  in  truth,  a  very  noble 
and  lovely  woman,  sympathizing  with  him  fully  in  all  his  nobler  aims 
and  pursuits.  She  was  to  him  what  I  think  every  woman  should  be 
to  the  man  she  loves,  a  blessing  and  an  inspiration. 

It  was  a  very  pleasant  evening  in  September.  Maud  Willoughby 
had  been  to  spend  the  evening  with  an  aunt,  and  Dr.  Sherman,  chanc- 
ing to  call  there  at  just  the  right  time,  was  walking  home  with  her 
under  the  pleasant  starlight.  It  was  not  a  long  walk  to  them,  I  will 
warrant,  for  they  were  talking  of  their  future — they  were  to  be  mar- 
ried in  December.  Their  minds  were  full  of  life  and  happiness  — 
certainly  death  had  no  part  in  their  thoughts. 

But  as  they  crossed  the  stone-bridge  that  spanned  the  river,  no 
other  passenger  being  in  sight  at  the  time,  they  came  suddenly  upon 
a  woman,  who,  but  for  Dr.  Sherman's  strong  arm,  would  have  "  rashly 
importunate,  gone  to  her  death."  She  was  evidently  just  preparing  to 
leap  from  the  low  side  of  the  bridge,  when  they  caught  sight  of  her, 
and  dropping  his  companion's  arm,  Dr.  Sherman  rushed  forward,  and, 
with  one  of  his  impetuous  movements,  he  drew  her  back  so  suddenly 
that  her  head  struck  against  the  stone-work,  making  a  small  gash 
from  which  the  blood  started. 


TUE  OUTCAST.  75 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked,  rather  roughly,  in  his  excite- 
ment, as  he  raised  her  to  an  upright  position  upon  the  ground  where 
she  had  1'allen. 

"  I  mean  to  die,"  answered  the  woman ;  and  as  her  tattered  hood 
fell  back,  it  revealed  a  face,  once  beautiful,  of  a  woman  of  about  fifty, 
but  now  haggard,  wasted,  looking  like  the  face  of  the  dying. 

"What  right  have  you  to  throw  away  your  life  in  this  manner  ?" 

"What  right  have  you  to  save  it?"  said  the  woman,  trying  to 
wipe  the  blood  from  her  forehead  with  her  ragged  shawl. 

Just  at  this  moment  Maud  came  up,  and  the  sight  of  the  cow- 
ering form,  bending  with  sorrow  and  guilt,  the  pale  face,  from  which 
the  blood  was  streaming,  was  too  much  for  her  tender,  womanly  little 
heart ;  and  with  tears  starting  in  her  blue  eyes,  she  said : 

"  Poor  woman,  I  am  so  sorry  for  you." 

At  these  words  of  sympathy  and  compassion,  perhaps  the  first 
she  had  heard  since  she  had  need  of  them,  the  stolid,  hardened  look 
of  the  woman's  face  melted  into  one  of  suffering.  And  as  Maud  bent 
down,  in  her  gentle  compassion,  and  laid  her  soft,  white  hand  upon  the 
poor  bruised  head,  the  woman  lifted  her  eyes  to  the  pitiful,  sweet 
face,  and  then  covering  her  own  distorted  features  with  her  hands, 
she  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears  and  sobs  that  shook  her  like  a 
tempest,  in  which  one  might  read  hopelessness  for  the  present,  despair 
for  the  future,  remorse  for  the  evil-doing  that  had  ruined  her,  regret, 
oh !  such  deep  and  poignant  regret  for  the  lost  purity  and  innocence 
that  were  once  hers,  but  lost  to  her  now — lost  to  her  forever. 

I  think  the  good  angel  of  this  woman — who  must  have  wept 
over  her,  if  angels  ever  weep — smiled  as  those  tears  flowed  faster 
and  faster;  for  is  it  not  in  such  remorseful  tears  that  our  soul-stains 
are  washed  away,  and  become  less  scarlet  ? 

0  ye  philanthropists,  who  regard  the  suffering  mass  of  blackened 
humanity  surging  beneath  you  as  a  turbid  tide,  to  be  checked  and 


f£  THE  OUTCAST. 

turned  back  by  loud  words  of  righteous  indignation;  ye  who  scatter 
from  barred  and  inaccessible  palace  windows,  largess  of  glittering  words 
of  wisdom  to  be  scrambled  for  by  the  crowd  beneath ;  ye  who  fit 
coats  of  advice  of  excellent  warp  and  woof  to.  the  shivering  backs  of 
sinners,  to  be  given  on  application ;  ye  who  drop  religious  tracts  from 
irloved  fingers,  "  The  Beauties  of  the  Heavenly  Home,"  on  the  bare 
floor  of  hovels ;  or  "Food  for  the  Sick  Soul,"  to  be  taken  on  an 
empty  stomach ;  ye  whose  words  of  rebuke  and  denunciation  have  been 
like  a  whirlwind  and  a  devouring  flame,  how  many  hearts  have  you 
melted  by  your  wholesale  method  of  reformation  ?  How  many  tears 
have  you  caused  to  gush,  like  this  woman's,  with  remorse  and  repent- 
ance ?  Lo !  here  they  flow,  not  by  words  of  rebuke  and  warning, 
but  by  the  touch  of  a  pitying  hand  upon  the  poor  sinful  head ;  by  a 
word  of  true  sympathy  coming  from  a  heart  full  of  tenderness  and 
compassion  for  all  of  God's  suffering  creatures,  but  most  of  all,  for 
His  erring  ones. 

"  Where  is  your  home  ?  "  asked  Dr.  Sherman,  at  last. 

"Home!"  sobbed  the  woman,  "if  I  had  a  home,  should  I  be 
here?" 

"Well,  you  must  stay  somewhere.  If  you  will  tell  me  where  you 
live,  after  I  have  taken  this  lady  home,  I  will  come  back  and  go  with 
you.  I  don't  think  you  are  fit  to  go  alone." 

"  I  can  go  alone,"  said  she,  rising  to  her  feet,  and  drawing  her 
thin  shawl  round  her  shoulders. 

But  as  she  stood  up,  she  reeled  and  almost  fell,  and  was  obliged 
to  sit  down  again. 

"I  am  afraid  you  are  very  ill,"  said  Maud.  "1  will  come  and 
see  you  to-morrow,  if  you  will  tell  me  where." 

The  woman  named  one  of  the  lowest  localities  in  the  city. 

"You  will  stay  here  till  1  come  back?"  said  Dr.  Sherman. 

The  woman  bowed  silently.     Another  mistake  here,  oh  !  ye  whole- 


THE  OUTCAST. 


77 


sale  reformers.     He   should   not   have  taken   her  word  without  exact- 
ing an  oath,  and  even  then  he  should  have  shown  in  his  countenance, 


and  in  his  words, 
distrusted  her ; 
a  warm  genial  at- 
truth,  that  heav- 


THE  OUTCAST. 


how  entirely  he 
for  it  is  in  such 
mosphcre  that 
enly  exotic,  blos- 


soms most  beauteously.  But  Dr.  Sherman  did  not  seem  to  doubt  her, 
for  he  turned  silently  to  his  companion  and  offered  his  arm. 

Mr.  Willoughby's  house  was  only  just  round  the  corner,  and  he 
returned  quickly,  and  found  the  woman  sitting  there  in  the  same  old 
place. 

"Now  I  will  go  with  you,"  said  he. 

She  rose  to  her  feet,  but  as  she  did  so,  she  tottered,  and  almost  fell. 

"  Take  my  arm,"  said  Dr.  Sherman. 

The  woman  gave  him  a  wondering  glance,  but  obeyed,  and  laid 
her  hand,  defiled  by  the  clasp  of  sin,  where  the  white  hand  of  Maud 
Willoughby  had  so  lately  been. 

I  think  it  was  with  a  thrill  of  repulsion  that  Dr.  Sherman  gave 
this  a  passing  thought,  as  he  felt  the  outcast's  shrinking  touch  upon 
his  arm.  But  he  certainly  gave  no  outward  manifestation  of  it ;  and 
the  strangely-assorted  couple  wended  their  way  down  the  street,  past 


THE  OUTCAST. 


splendid  mansions  with  brown-stone  walls   facing   the  avenue  —  walls 
that  men  had  built  high,  and  thick,  and  strong,  to  fence  out  the  black 

wolves  of  the  street  from  the 
white  lambs  within.  Not  high 
enough,  nor  strong  enough,  oh, 
ye  rich  men !  Past  churches, 
where  priestly  hands  are  raised 
in  benediction  over  the  kneel- 
ing worshipers;  wherein  re- 
sponse to  the  intoned  expostu- 
lation, "  Let  your  light  so  shine 
before  men,"  bounteous  amounts 
are  subscribed  for  the  heathen, 
haply  wandering  under  his  na- 
tive palm-trees,  over  tropical 
vegetation,  warmer  and  softer  to 
bare  feet  than  the  icy  pavements 
of  our  American  cities ;  where 
eloquent  words  of  admonition 
and  consolation  are  addressed 
to  the  poor,  whom  the  Lord  left 
as  a  legacy  of  care  to  his  disci- 
ples. Not  loud  enough,  oh,  ye 
Christian  teachers!  The  elo- 
quent words  beaten  back  by  the  frescoed  walls,  die  down  the  long  arches, 
or  float  upward  with  the  organ  notes,  the  "Dies  Irce "  the  "  Be  pitiful, 
oh  God."  Down  from  the  broad,  clean  streets,  into  narrower  ways  of 
respectable  poverty ;  down,  down,  down  where  the  streets  are  reeking 
and  filthy  with  decaying  vegetables  and  debris  of  all  kinds ;  where  the 
gaping  houses  leaned  over  the  narrow  streets  with  shutterless,  broken 
windows,  as  if  clamoring  to  tell  their  wild  secrets  of  and  horror  to  the 


STRANGE   COMPANIONS. 


THE  OUTCAST.  79 

respectable  stranger  passing  beneath;  where  the  air  crime,  and  want, 
was  putrid,  as  if  reeking  with  moral  miasma  as  well  as  physical.  (Hi, 
ye  rich  men,  what  chance  would  one  of  your  white  lambs  have  here, 
to  keep  itself  white  ? 

They  turned,  finally,  round  the  corner  of  a  tall  tenement-house 
into  a  deep  alley,  where  the  bright  moonlight  fought  with  mysterious 
shadows.  Here  the  woman  paused,  and  opened  a  door.  As  she  did 
so,  a  current  of  cold,  almost  icy  air  struck  Dr.  Sherman,  as  if  from 
a  charnel  house.  He  had  a  little  pocket-lantern,  and  this  he  lit,  look- 
ing round  the  bare  room. 

u  My  God ! "  he  cried,  "  can  a  human  being  call  this  home  ?  " 

We  read  of  the  sufferings  of  the  poor  in  our  great  cities,  as  we 
do  of  desert  siroccos,  or  northern  glaciers  and  avalanches;  something 
wilh  which  we  have  nothing  to  do,  only  to  feel  a  sort  of  mild  compas- 
sion. Dr.  Sherman  was  a  follower  of  Christ.  He  thought  that  a 
dreamy  pity,  exhausted  in  compassionate  reveries  on  silken  couches  and 
by  warm  hearth-stones,  did  not  really  amount  to  much.  He  thought, 
-that  if  he  said  to  this  woman,  for  instance,  "  My  dear  madame,  depart 
in  peace  ;  be  ye  warmed  and  fed,"  it  was  not  all  that  was  necessary 
for  her  comfort.  His  old  nurse  was  married  now,  and  kept  a  small 
boarding-house  in  the  suburbs  of  the  city ;  and  he  knew  that  for  his 
sake  she  would  take  the  stranger  in,  and  make  her  dying  hours  more 
comfortable  ;  for  with  the  keen  insight  of  his  profession,  he  knew  she 
had  not  many  days  to  live.  Even  while  he  was  thinking  of  this,  the 
woman  sank  down  upon  the  bare,  broken  floor,  in  a  deathly  fainting  fit. 

He  took  her  up  and  laid  her  upon  the  pile  of  rags  and  straw 
that  served  as  a  bed ;  then  he  took  his  medicine  case  out  of  his 
pocket  and  gave  her  a  restorative.  After  a  few  minutes  she  opened 
her  eyes,  and  as  the  rays  of  the  lantern  fell  full  upon  his  face,  she 
sat  up  and  cried  hoarsely :  — 


80 


THE  OUTCAST. 


"  Man !    man !    are   you    a   fiend,  that  you   keep  your  youth  and 
beauty,  while  I,  —  look  at  me !     Look  at  your  work." 


"LOOK  AT  YOUR  WORK." 

He  thought  it  was  only  the  raving  of  a  momentary  delirium,  and 
he  said  some  soothing  woyds  to  her.  But  she  did  not  notice  them. 
She  looked  full  in  his  face,  with  her  large  hollow  eyes. 

"Who  are  you?" 

"  I  am  Dr.  Sherman.  I  found  you  on  the  bridge,  you  know. 
Here,  take  some  of  this  cordial." 

He  was  holding  it  in  his  hand,  and  the  light  fell  directly  upon  a 
ring  that  he  wore  upon  his  little  finger.  A  peculiar  ring,  a  circle  of 
dusky  gold  clasping  a  crescent,  formed  of  three  rubies.  She  looked  at 
it  intently. 

"Where  did  you  get  that  ring?" 

He  thought  her  mind  was  wandering  still. 


TUE  OUTCAST. 


81 


"  Here,  take  this  cordial,"  he  replied. "  I  would  not  talk  any  more  now." 

She  obeyed  him  silently,  and 
sank  down  upon  the  pile  of  rags. 

Dr.  Sherman  left  her  that  night 
in  care  of  an  Irish  woman,  who  oc- 
cupied another  part  of  the  tenement, 
and  in  the  morning  he  removed  her 
to  the  boarding  house,  where  the 
clean,  quiet  room  seemed  like  a  pal- 
ace to  the  outcast. 

Here  Maud  Willoughby  came 
often  to  see  her.  Dr.  Sherman  at- 
tended her  faithfully,  and  the  wo- 
man's gratitude  and  devotion  to  him 
seemed  boundless;  but  it  was  evi- 
dent that  her  days  were  numbered. 

One  day  soon  after  her  removal, 
she  said  to  the  old  woman  who  had 
charge  of  her: — "That  is  a  singular 
ring  Dr.  Sherman  wears." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  old  lady ;  and 
with  the  garrulity  of  old  age,  she 
went  on  to  tell  a  long  story  of  how 
her  master,  old  Dr.  Sherman, — they 
lived  in  another  city  then, — had 
heard  a  lad  singing  under  his  win- 
dow, one  stormy  night;  how  he 
adopted  the  boy ;  how  the  only  thing 
of  value  the  child  had,  was  this  ring 
which  he  wore  on  a  ribbon  round 
his  neck,  until  he  got  large  enough 
to  wear  it  on  his  finger. 


82  THE  OUTCAST. 

How  the  child  said  that  his  mother  was  very  sick  and  had  sent 
him  with  this  ring  to  find  some  gentleman  who  she  thought  would 
take  care  of  him  if  she  died.  How  he  could  not  find  him,  and  had 
got  lost,  and  wandered  around  many  days  before  he  got  back  to  the 
place  where  he  left  his  mother.  And  when  he  found  the  house  it 
was  only  a  ruin,  for  there  had  been  a  fire  that  had  swept  over  all 
that  part  of  the  city.  And  how  he  had  wandered  about  ever  since, 
only  keeping  himself  from  starvation  by  the  few  pennies  that  he  had 
earned  by  singing. 

Then  she  told  how  Dr.  Sherman  adopted  the  child  for  his  own 
son,  and  had  removed  to  another  city  where  not  a  soul  knew  but  what 
he  was  the  old  gentleman's  own  boy. 

And  then  after  pledging  her  to  secrecy,  for  she  vowed  it  was  the 
first  time  the  story  had  ever  passed  her  lips,  she  waxed  eloquent  over 
the  subject  dearest  her  heart,  of  the  goodness  of  her  young  master, 
his  kindness,  his  generosity. 

The  woman  listened  with  the  hot  tears  falling  fast  but  unnoticed 
upon  her  pillow,  for  the  twilight  was  enwrapping  the  room  in  somber 
shadow. 

At  the  woman's  request,  Dr.  Sherman  and  Maud  read  to  her 
often  from  the  Bible,  the  sweet  Psalms  of  David,  and  the  prophet's 
inspired  words.  But  most  of  all  did  she  love  to  hear  of  Him,  who 
renouncing  heaven  to  dwell  with  sorrowing  humanity,  went  about 
doing  good,  patient  with  a  world  that  rejected  him  —  a  world  he  gave 
himself  for. 

She  never  made  any  reference  to  her  past  life  but  once,  though 
it  was  evident  from  her  conversation,  that  she  had  received  the  educa- 
tion of  a  lady.  It  was  in  this  way,  whenever  Dr.  Sherman  was  in  her 
presence,  she  would  gaze  up  into  his  face  with  a  look  of  almost 
worshipful  gratitude,  and  one  day,  when  she  had  been  looking  at  him  \ 
so  long  and  so  earnestly,  she  said  to  Maud,  after  he  left  the  room. 


THE  OUTCAST.  gg 

"  He  looks  like   some  one  I  knew — some  one  I  loved   long  ago." 

Maud  did  not  reply,  and  the  woman  went  on,  speaking  as  if  more 
to  herself  than  to  her. 

"  Oh,  how  I  loved  that  man !  I  had  never  known  what  love  was 
when  I  met  him,  a  poor  drudge  of  a  governess.  And  when  he  offered 
love  to  me  —  or  its  poor  counterfeit,  how  could  I  tell  —  I  followed  it 
whither  it  led  me.  Oh,  my  God,  if  we  could  only  undo  the  past ! " 

Her  excitement  left  her  soon  in  such  a  deathly  state,  that  Maud 
alarmed,  called  in  Dr.  Sherman,  who  was  still  in  the  next  room. 

It  was  the  last  day,  though  they  had  hardly  thought  her  end  was  so 
near.  She  had  been  very  restless  through  the  day,  and  toward  night, 
as  Dr.  Sherman  bent  over  her,  she  looked  up  into  his  face  with  a 
look  of  wistfulness,  longing,  and  love,  and  then  she  shut  her  eyes,  and 
turned  her  face  toward  the  wall,  and  they  heard  her  murmur :  — 

"Oh,  my  boy!  if  I  could  only  have  one  kiss  from  my  boy,  when 
I  am  dying  —  when  I  am  dying!" 

"  She  is  thinking  of  some  child  she  has  lost,"  whispered  Maud. 

"Yes,"  murmured  the  woman,  "  a  child  she  has  lost." 

In  a  few  minutes,  Dr.  Sherman  was  called  out  of  the  room  for 
awhile.  The  woman  followed  him  with  her  eager,  hungry  gaze,  till 
the  door  closed  on  him.  Then  she  said  to  Maud :  — 

"You  love  him?" 

"  Yes." 

"  You  are  to  be  his  wife?" 

"  Yes,  if  God  spares  our  lives." 

"  God  bless  you  both ! "  and  then  after  a  minute,  she  went  on : 
"  Sometime,  in  the  future,  as  you  sit  in  your  happy  home,  maybe  you 
with  a  child  in  your  arms,  maybe  a  little  boy  that  looks  like  him  — 
it  would  make  you  happier  to  have  it  look  like  him  —  just  such  a 
noble  face,  such  true,  tender  eyes  —  like,  yet  unlike  tlie  eyes  I  knew, 
because  truer  than  they  were." 


84  THE  OUTCAST. 

"  Yes,  oh  yes."  Maud's  eyes  were  softened  \)y  the  sweet  home- 
picture,  while  her  cheeks  were  hot  with  blushes. 

"  If  in  that  happy  home,  in  your  happy  hearts,  a  thought  of  me, 
of  the  poor  wanderer,  should  ever  come,  how  would  you  think  of  me  ? " 

"  Kindly  and  tenderly,"  cried  Maud,  through  her  hot  tears. 

"  Yes,  kindly  and  tenderly,  that  is  in  both  of  your  hearts ;  they 
should  never  know  a  regret  or  a  care  that  I  could  save  them  from." 

But  after  a  short  pause  she  continued  again,  for  the  picture  she 
was  drawing  of  the  possible  future,  seemed  to  have  a  strange  fasci- 
nation for  her. 

"  I  know  you  will  make  him  happy.  He  will  work  hard,  for  he 
is  a  toiler  in  life,  following  his  divine  Master,  going  about  doing  good, 
in  weariness  often.  But,  in  your  love,  in  your  bright,  happy  home, 
he  will  find  his  reward,  his  rest,  his  happiness.  I  love  to  think  how 
peaceful  that  home  will  be ;  no  sorrowful  memories,  no  shame,  no 
regret  to  darken  that  bright  fireside ;  and  if  a  thought  of  me,  of  the 
poor  stranger,  should  ever  come,  let  it  come  as  a  blessing,  a  benedic- 
tion. Let  the  voice  of  the  Christ  speak  to  you  through  that  mem- 
ory, "  Inasmuch  as  ye  have  done  it  unto  the  least  of  one  of  these, 
ye  have  done  it  unto  me." 

Again  she  paused,  and  then  she  inquired,  "  Is  that  his  Bible  ? " 

"  Yes,  do  you  want  it  ? "  for  she  had  reached  out  her  gaunt  hand 
for  the  book. 

"  Yes,  let  me  take  it." 

Maud  took  it  from  the  stand,  and  handed  it  to  her.  The  dying 
woman  took  it,  and  held  it  in  her  trembling  hands. 

"  He  has  held  it  in  his  hands  a  great  many  times  ? " 

"  Yes." 

"Read  it  often  —  read  in  it  often  of  the  Christ  —  the  wonderful, 
Divine  Master  he  is  following  ? " 

"  Yes." 


THE  OUTCAST. 


85 


She  put  it  on  the  pillow,  and  laid  her  cheek  upon  it. 

"What  Avas    it   you   read  me  yesterday,  in  your   book,  about   the 
sins  of  the  world  ? " 

Maud  took  up  her  Prayer  Book,  and  read  from  the  Litany,  "  Thou 
that  takest  away  the  sins  of  the  world,  have  mercy  upon  us." 

"  Have  mercy  upon  us,"  repeated  the  woman. 

After  a  time   she   sunk   into   a  troubled 
sleep,  in  which,  at  first,  she  murmured  fitful 
words  —  sometimes  of  life's  weary  toils  and  sor- 
rows, sometimes  of  childish  plays  and  games. 
The  sleep  grew  deeper 
and  more    quiet,  and 
just  as   the   day  was 
breaking  in  the  east, 
without  a  struggle  or 
a  change  of  feature, 
she   passed    into   the 
presence    of    that 
Judge,  who,  if  He  is 
just,  is,   well   for    us 
poor    sinners,   merci- 
ful also. 

Dr.  Sherman  did 
not  bury  her  in  the 
Potter's  field,  but  in 
a  quiet  corner  of  the  church-yard,  and  there  he  raised  a  white  cross  over 
her  grave.  On  it  was  carved  no  name,  for  they  knew  not  her  name, 
>but  only  these  words  which  had  seemed  to  soothe  her  dying  moments, 
u  Thou  that  takest  away  the  sins  of  the  world,  have  mercy  upon  us." 

And  Dr.  Sherman   never   dreamed  that  that  mute  prayer  carved 
in  marble,  was  raised  over  the  grave  of  his  mother. 


TEIE   GOOD    IJOOK. 


THE    RESCUE. 


N  the  small  village  of  Atholton,  that  nestled 
at  the  foot  of  a  northern  mountain,  there  were 
two  men  who  had  deserted  their  wives — John 
Ford  and  Newell  Foster.  And  yet  the  village 
paper,  the  Weekly  Enlightener,  which  paused  in  its  glorious  career  of 
enlightening  the  darkness  of  the  world  to  condemn,  as  a  righteous 
paper  should,  the  crime  of  John  Ford,  in  fact,  devoted  a  column  and  a 
half  to  a  very  large-worded  editorial  denunciation  of  him,  said  not  a 
word  about  Foster. 

Sympathy,  without  stint  or  measure,  and  a  few  dollars  in  money 
were  given  to  Mrs.  Ford,  but  not  a  pitying  glance  was  bent  on  Mrs.  Fos- 
ter. And  yet  I  think  her  condition  incomparably  the  worse  of  the  two  ; 
for  when  John  Ford  deserted  his  wife  he  took  his  body  along,  while  Fos- 
ter left  his  at  home  for  his  wife  to  care  for,  to  supply  its  needs,  to  be  a 
constant  anguish  to  her,  reminding  her  every  moment  of  the  bright  days 
before  he  had  deserted  her. 

Some  people  have  a  wrong  impression,  I  think,  in  regard  to  these 
things.  They  think  it  is  necessary  for  a  man  to  run  away  in  order  to 

(87) 


gg  THE  DESERTED  WIVES. 

desert  his  wife.  I  do  not.  Newell  Foster  had  left  his  wife,  just  as 
truly  as  if  he  had  betaken  himself  to  Australia,  or  Ethiopia,  or  where 
not ;  and  she  was  just  as  truly  a  forlorn,  desolate,  broken-hearted 
woman,  as  if  she  were  outwardly,  as  she  was  in  the  sight  of  God,  alone. 

Mrs.  Foster  knew  this.  Ah,  yes!  Let  her  midnight  tears  bear 
witness  to  the  truth. 

John  Ford  and  his  wife  had  a  terrible  quarrel  before  he  ran  away, 
lawyers  and  a  few  meddlesome  neighbors  helping  the  matter  along. 
Mr.  Foster  and  his  wife  had  had  no  quarrel.  No  officious  friend  had 
told  Mrs.  Foster  that  they  u  wouldn't  stand  it,  so,"  and  u  to  stand  up  for 
her  rights,"  for  Mrs.  Foster  never  complained ;  and  as  for  rights,  I  don't 
think  Mrs.  Foster  thought  she  had  any,  at  least  she  did  not  after  she 
had  been  married  a  few  years.  In  the  case  of  Ford,  a  woman  was  con- 
nected— a  woman  whose  mission  in  the  world  seemed  to  be  to  prove 
how  low  a  soul  may  plunge  into  the  depths  of  degradation,  and  how 
many  weak  souls  she  can  carry  downward  with  her.  Newell  Foster  had 
been  true  to  the  letter  of  his  marriage  vows.  Since  he  had  stood  at  the 
altar,  ten  years  before,  with  the  one  woman  he  had  chosen  out  of  the 
world,  he  had  "forsaken  all  others,"  as  he  promised  then  to  do. 

What  then  had  brought  this  state  of  things  to  pass  with  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Foster  ?  Well,  I  think  Foster  was  disappointed  in  his  wife.  He 
thought  he  was  marrying  an  heiress.  Not  that  he  married  her  entirely 
for  her  wealth.  She  had  plenty  of  other  attractions  for  him  in  those 
far-off  days  of  their  courtship.  But  Mr.  Foster  was  a  shrewd,  keen, 
business  man,  who  looked  out  for  the  main  chance  ;  and  it  was  unpleas- 
ant to  him,  to  say  the  least,  that  his  respected  father-in-law  failed,  dur- 
ing the  first  year  of  their  marriage — failed,  and  hid  himself  from  his 
hungry  creditors  in  the  grave,  leaving  his  only  child  no  heritage  but  a 
dishonored  name.  This  was  one  thing.  And,  for  another,  she  had 
borne  him  no  children.  And  then  she  disappointed  him  in  many  ways. 
Her  health  was  not  good.  She  had  been  a  very  bright  and  blooming 


THE  DESERTED  WIVES.  39 

girl  when  he  married  her ;  but  ten  years  of  married  life,  with  Newell 
Foster  for  a  husband,  had  very  thoroughly  weeded  the  roses  out  of  her 
cheeks  and  the  brightness  and  elasticity  out  of  her  spirits.  She  was 
now  a  pale,  spiritless  household  drudge,  still  worshiping,  unhappily,  the 
man  who  had  taken  her  from  her  happy  girlhood  home,  and  then 
deserted  her.  It  was  this  love  that  still  remained  so  warm  and  true  in 
her  heart  that  made  the  very  sting  of  her  grief.  If  she  could  have 
been  so  indignant  with  him  that  she  could  have  resented  in  spirit  the 
constant  slights  he  put  upon  her,  the  daily  humiliation  of  his  indiffer- 
ence, the  harsh  words  and  looks,  the  hardships  of  labor  and  endurance, 
she  could  have  borne  it  better.  But  she  loved  him,  and  love  always 
makes  a  woman  a  slave — a  slavery  sweeter  than  freedom,  as  many  a 
happy  heart  will  testify,  when  the  love  is  mutual,  and  tender,  and  gen- 
erous. But  in  the  case  of  Mrs.  Foster  it  was  a  failure,  so  far  as  happi- 
ness was  concerned. 

Mrs.  Ford's  husband  had  left  her  with  six  little  children,  needy  and 
destitute.  There  were  plenty  among  those  who  had  known  her  in  more 
prosperous  days  to  recommend  the  orphan  asylum  or  the  poor  house. 
But  there  was  one  pale  woman  who  opened  her  arms,  longing  to  clasp 
the  weakest  and  youngest  and  most  helpless  in  them.  Foster  did  not 
object  when  his  wife  proposed  to  adopt  little  Winnie  Ford  for  their  own 
child.  Of  course,  his  wife  would  take  the  care  of  it.  He  would  have  a 
separate  room  during  its  babyhood ;  he  couldn't  be  disturbed.  But  the 
child  was  sweet  and  wonderfully  bright-looking.  She  might  grow  up  to 
be  an  honor  to  him,  and  he  would  never  have  any  children  of  his  own. 

So  little  Winnie  Ford  Foster  came  to  live  with  them,  and 
the  mother-love,  that  had  never  been  satisfied,  found  expression. 
No  mother  could  be  tenderer  in  care  and  watching  to  her  own  child 
than  was  Mrs.  Foster  to  the  little  one  Providence  had  thus  given  to  her 
arms.  It  was,  perhaps,  two  years  after  this,  for  Winnie  was  a  most 
beautiful  arid  engaging  child,  just  running  around  and  beginning  to  say 


90  THE  DESERTED  WIVES. 

a  few  words,  when  Mr.  Foster  resolved  to  emigrate  to  California.  He 
thought  he  could  do  better  there.  Of  course  his  wife  made  no  objec- 
tions to  anything  he  proposed ;  if  she  had,  it  would  not  have  changed 
matters  at  all.  So,  one  September  day  they  set  out,  poor  Mrs.  Ford, 
who  was  having  a  hard  time  to  keep  her  children's  bodies  and  souls 
together,  dropping  many  tears  on  Winnie's  little  fair  face. 

Arrived  at  their  destination,  Mr.  Foster  did  do  well.  He  made 
more  money  in  a  year  and  a  half  than  he  had  ever  made  in  his  life 
before.  And,  of  course,  he  was  not  satisfied,  and  wanted  to  make 
more ;  so  he  bought  a  claim,  hired  a  gang  of  miners,  and  proceeded  to 
the  distant  canyon,  where  his  claim  was  situated. 

Mrs.  Foster  was  beginning  to  like  the  mild  climate  of  San  Fran- 
cisco. She  had  formed  some  pleasant  acquaintances  amongst  Eastern 
people,  who,  like  them  had  emigrated  hither,  and  her  comparative  free- 
dom from  labor  had  given  back  to  her  a  portion  of  her  lost  health. 
She  dreaded  inexpressibly  the  new  wild  home  amongst  the  mountains, 
the  lonely  life,  with  only  rough  miners  for  associates,  and  the  hard  labor 
that  must  be  her  portion.  Mr.  Foster  was  abundantly  able  to  hire  ser- 
vants to  do  the  cooking  for  his  men,  but  I  don't  think  the  idea  that  he 
could  do  so  had  ever  entered  his  brain.  He  was  so  accustomed  to  the 
services  of  his  legally-bound  handmaiden,  that,  to  do  the  man  justice,  I 
certainly  do  not  think  the  thought  occurred  to  him,  that  he  could 
employ  another  to  relieve  her. 

Early  in  May  they  were  established  in  their  new  home,  Mr.  Foster's 
healthy,  handsome  countenance  beaming  with  content,  as  he  overlooked 
the  labor  of  his  men ;  for  his  venture  was  proving  more  successful  than 
he  had  dared  to  hope  for.  Mrs.  Foster's  face  looked  more  faded  and 
worn  than  ever,  for  she  had  no  gratified  ambition  to  inspirit  her. 
Greater  wealth  would  not  affect  any  favorable  change  in  her  circum- 
stances, judging  from  the  past.  And  poor,  patient,  weary  eyes,  looking 
into  frying-pan  and  gridiron  and  sultry  oven  interiors,  they  had  no  time 


TllK  DESERTED  WIVES.  91 

to  look  away  from  the  poverty  of  her  surroundings  indoors,  to  the  glory 
of  the  mountains,  the  glory  of  the  forests,  the  glory  of  the  waters ;  for 
it  was  on  the  bank  of  a  rushing  torrent  that  their  shanty  was  situated. 

The  rough  board  walls  of  her  cabin  kept  the  glory  and  the  sun- 
shine from  the  tired  eyes,  as  palace  walls  have  sometimes  done  when 
sick  hearts  have  languished  within  them. 

But  little  Winnie  was  happy.  Her  child  eyes,  so  new  "to  all  the 
world,  found  unending  delight  in  all  the  wonderful,  beautiful  things 
about  her.  She  was  the  one  ray  of  sunshine  in  Mrs.  Foster's  toilsome, 
loveless  life.  Mr.  Foster  was  proud  of  his  "  little  daughter,"  as  he 
called  her  and  thought  of  her.  Her  exceeding  beauty  and  intelligence 
gratified  his  ambition  and  gave  him  hopes  of  a  brilliant  future  for  her. 
And,  to  do  him  justice,  lie  was  a  great  lover  of  children,  and  the  disap- 
pointment of  not  having  any  of  his  own  had  been  very  hard  for  him  to 
bear.  They  all  loved  her  ;  and,  in  fact,  it  would  be  very  difficult  to 
help  loving  little  Winnie  Foster.  Her  face  was  sweet  as  an  apple-blos- 
som ;  just  such  a  healthy,  cheerful  beauty,  too ;  none  of  your  delicate, 
wax-like,  hot-house  blossoming  in  her  round,  rosy  little  face.  Her  hair 
hung  around  her  brow  and  cheeks  like  wavy  masses  of  spun  gold ;  and 
her  eyes  were  like  the  blue  gentians  on  the  dear  northern  hillsides,  that 
Mrs.  Foster  remembered  so  well. 

All  day  long  that  little  golden  head  could  be  seen  flitting  about  the 
cabin.  The  miners  grew  to  love  it,  hold  it  in  a  tender,  sacred  rever- 
ence, as  they  did  the  memories  of  their  own  little  ones  far  away.  But, 
above  all,  there  was  one  man  amongst  them  whose  love  for  her  knew  no 
bounds.  This  was  a  man  with  wild,  uncouth  looks,  and  face  nearly  cov- 
ered with  a  beard  of  patriarchal  growth.  His  face  was  rendered  more 
forbidding,  too,  by  a  long  scar,  newly  healed,  that  cut  across  the  fore- 
head and  one  cheek. 

This  man,  who  had  been  hired  by  Mr.  Foster  after  they  had  nearly 
reached  their  destination,  was  a  stranger  to  all ;  but  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fos- 


92 


THE  DESERTED  WIVES. 


ter  were  often  puzzled  by  a  curious  resemblance,  in  the  dark  eyes,  to 
some  one  they  had  once  seen.  He  was  faithful  to  his  work  and  to  his 
employer's  interests  ;  but  he  was  not  a  favorite  with  the  men.  He  was 
too  reticent — surly,  they  called  it ;  and  as  he  seemed  to  wish  to  have 
nothing  to  do  with  them,  they  looked  upon  him  with  distrust  and  dislike. 


But  Winnie  loved  him.  His  rough,  scarred  face  was  beautiful  to 
her,  for  it  always  wore  a  smile  for  her.  He  was  never  too  tired  to  tell 
her  the  long  stories  she  demanded  of  him.  He  gloried  in  the  joyful 
ignominy  of  being  her  horse,  her  dog,  her  elephant,  or  whatever  other 
animal  her  capricious  fancy  might  dictate.  She  rode  in  triumphant 
security  on  his  shoulder,  queenly  mistress  of  these  refractory  animals, 
her  small,  white  hands  clasped  about  his  neck.  To  thus  bear  her  up 
the  hill  to  the  cabin,  prancing  heavily  if  he  were  a  horse,  or  with  long, 


THE  DESERTED  WIVES. 


93 


unwieldy  strides  if  he  were  her 
camel,  was  to  Jake  Wilder  suffi- 
cient reward  for  the  labors  of  the 
day. 

It  was  one  lovely  morning  in 
August  that  she  appeared  at  his 
side,  as  he  was  rocking  his  rough 
cradle,  seeking  for  golden  reward. 

"  Dake,  what  o'o  doonin'  ?" 

He  left  off  his  work  at  once 
to.  tell  her  what  he  was  doing — 
told  with  a  kiss  on  the  little  fresh, 
eager  face.  He  was  glad  to  think 
of  this  afterward — glad  to  think 
that  he  stopped  his  work  for  a 
moment,  wiped  his  hands  on  his 
coarse  miner  garb,  and  lifted  her 
up  in  his  brawny  arms  for  one  of 
the  flying  leaps  through  the  air 
that  she  relished  so  well.  He  Avas 
obliged  to  go  up  the  hill,  then,  to 
the  cabin,  and  she  at  once  proposed 
that  he  should  go  as  "  her  el'f ant." 
He  consented,  with  great  readiness 
and  delight,  and,  placing  her  on 
his  shoulder,  he  pranced  solemnly 
up  the  hill,  like  a  good-humored 
elephant  bearing  a  fairy  princess, 
went  in  his  best"  el'f  ant"  tread, 
slower  and  more  majestic  than  his  ^  *j-i-ER  £l_3FANT 

gait  when  he  was  a  horse. 

At  the  cabin  door  he  set  her  down  with  another  kiss ;  and  she 


94 


THE  DESERTED  WIVES. 


looked  up  in  his  face  with  her  trusting  child  eyes,  and  patted  his  rough 
cheeks  tenderly,  and  said : 

"  I  love  you,  Dake  ;  you'r  dood ;  you'r  my  dood  old  Dake." 

In  a  few  minutes  she  was  at  her  mother's  side. 

"What  o'o  doonin',  mamma?" 

This  was  a  great  habit  of  the  little  maiden,  asking  every  one  what 
they  were  doing.  Everything  was  so  new  to  her ;  she  had  so  many 
things  to  learn;  people  were  doing  such  strange  things  all  the  time; 
everything  was  strange  to  her ;  she  must  be  constantly  asking,  in  order 
to  find  out  things. 

"  What  am  I  doing  ?  I  am  working  my  life  away.  I  am  killing 
myself." 

And  poor,  despairing,  hard-worked  Mrs.  Foster  dropped  her  rolling- 
pin  in  the  bread-tray,  and  sank  down  in  a  chair. 


MRS.  FOSTER   CAUGHT   HER   TO   HER   BREAST. 

Mrs.  Foster  was  not  pale  this  morning.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed 
with  a  deep  red  hue,  and  her  eyes  shone  with  a  strange,  unnatural  bril- 
liancy. She  had  a  terrible  headache,  was  nervous,  so  she  thought.  All 


THE  DESERTED  WIVES.  95 

the  morning  her  life,  so  tiresome,  so  bare,  had  been  confronting  her. 
Her  husband  had  been  unusually  cold  and  stern  to  her,  too.  Winnie 
looked  ii})  into  her  mother's  despairing,  passion- worked  face  with  inno- 
cent, frightened  eyes,  and  pretty  soon  her  pretty  lips  began  to  quiver. 
Seeing  this,  Mrs.  Foster  caught  her  to  her  breast. 

u  Oh,  my  darling,  if  it  were  not  for  you,  I  would  wish  to  die  !  No- 
body loves  me  but  you.  Nobody  would  care  if  I  did  die.  But  you 
would  miss  me,  wouldn't  you,  my  precious  ?  " 

"  Papa  would  cry,  too,"  said  little  Winnie,  with  an  effort  at  child- 
ish comfort. 

"  No,  papa  wouldn't  care.  Papa  don't  love  me,"  cried  the  poor 
woman,  bursting  into  tears ;  for  she  was  unstrung  by  the  near  approach 
of  the  terrible  sickness  of  which  she  was  as  yet  unaware. 

"  Winnie  loves  mamma.  Winnie  will  be  dood  dirl  all  day,  two  — 
four — nine  days." 

Had  her  scant  knowledge  of  arithmetic  enabled  her  promise  to 
extend  to  a  longer  date,  it  would  most  assuredly  have  done  so,  so  wrung 
and  troubled  was  her  childish  heart  at  the  unusual  spectacle  of  her 
mother's  tears. 

Seeing  the  trouble  on  the  baby  face  and  the  grieved  quiver  in  the 
childish  voice,  Mrs.  Foster  made  a  great  effort  to  calm  herself.  And 
soon  the  little  cabin  was  as  quiet,  to  outward  appearance,  as  if  no  gust 
of  stormy  passion  had  so  lately  swept  through  it. 

Mrs.  Foster  braced  her  fainting  form  to  go  on  with  her  preparation 
for  dinner ;  and  Winnie,  soon  as  light-hearted  as  before,  flitted  about  as 
usual. 

Mr.  Foster  was  sitting  on  a  bench,  at  some  distance  from  the  cabin, 
looking  at  some  new  specimens  of  ore  one  of  his  men  had  recently  dis- 
covered. It  was  richer  than  had  ever  been  taken  before  from  his 
mines ;  and  he  was  sitting,  lost  in  golden  visions,  with  his  sombrero 
drawn  down  over  his  handsome  blonde  face. 


96  THE  DESERTED  WIVES. 

"  What  o'o  doonin',  papa  ?" 

So  absorbed  was  Mr.  Foster  in  his  golden  dreamings,  that,  as  he 
was  sorry  to  remember  afterward,  he  did  not  respond  to  her  childish 
question  till  after  it  was  three  or  four  times  repeated,  and  then  he  bade 
her  "  run  away,  lie  was  busy."  But  little  Winnie  had  something  upon 
her  mind,  and  was  not  to  be  put  away. 

"  Papa,  mamma  is  killing  herself ! " 

"What  is  it?"  This  drew  his  attention  very  thoroughly.  "  What 
is  it  you  say,  child?" 

"  Mamma  is  killing  herself,  and  she  said  you  wouldn't  care  !  She 
said  you  didn't  love  her ;  and  then  mamma  cried,  she  did.  Don't  you 
love  her,  papa  ?  She's  a  dood  mamma,  I  fink." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  her  killing  herself?" 

And  then  Winnie  went  on,  with  great  minuteness,  to  explain  the 
rise  and  progress  of  the  conversation. 

"I  said, 'Mamma,  what  o'o  doonin'?'  Mamma  said,  'I  killing 
myself,  working.' " 

"Oh,"  cried  Mr.  Foster,  with  a  relieved  look.  It  was  only  a  wom- 
anish, nervous  complaining,  that  was  all.  But  little  Winnie  went  on : 

"That  wasn't  when  she  cried  —  when  she  said  she  killing  herself. 
She  said  you  wouldn't  care  she  dead.  Then  she  cried,  she  did,  awful 
hard,  she  cried.  She  said  you  didn't  love  her.  Don't  you  love  her, 
papa?" 

And  little  Winnie,  who  was  constantly  asking  questions  of  every- 
body, and  would,  if  possible,  never  give  up  her  pursuit  of  knowledge 
upon  any  subject,  in  her  eagerness  to  discover  the  truth  of  this  most 
singular  assertion  of  her  mother,  repeated  the  question,  looking  up  into 
his  face  with  innocent,  wondering  eyes. 

"Don't  you  love  her,  papa,  my  dood  mamma?" 

"  Love  her  ?  Of  course.  What  a  question !  Run  away,  now  ;  I 
am  busy." 


THE  DESERTED  WIVES.  97 

And  he  turned  away  once  more  to  examine  his  golden  treasure,  and 
delight  in  it.  But,  somehow,  after  the  little  form  had  flitted  away,  as 
he  had  bidden  it,  he  couldn't  help  letting  his  mind  wander  from  the 
golden  treasure  in  his  hands  to  the  words  of  the  golden-haired  little 
preacher,  who  had  so  lately  spoken  to  him.  "Love  his  wife!"  The 
words  had  come  glibly  enough  to  his  lips  when  he  was  speaking  to  little 
Winnie.  Of  course  he  loved  her!  What  a  question!  Wasn't  she  his 
wife  —  his  lawful  wife?  The  idea  of  his  love  for  her  being  called  in 
question!  He,  a  church-member  —  he  who  read  the  Bible  every  Sab- 
bath, and  who  had  always  kept  his  heart  from  wandering  after  strange 
idols.  Love  his  wife !  What  an  idea !  But  he  couldn't  quiet  his  con- 
science, his  remorseful  emotions,  by  thus  braving  it  out.  His  con- 
science, that  had  been  his  servant,  a  careless  servant,  too,  sleeping  at 
its  post,  woke  up  now,  and  was  his  master — a  more  relentless  and  inex- 
orable master  because  it  had  so  long  slumbered,  and  was  now  arisen,  a 
king  indeed. 

In  what  way  had  he  shown  his  love  for  her  for  years  past  ?  Were 
frowns,  and  indifference,  and  cold,  harsh  words  the  language  of  love  ? 
Was  it  in  that  way  he  had  won  her  from  all  other  suitors,  in  the  long- 
forgotten  spring-time  of  their  lives?  That  sweet  girl-wife,  so  fair,  so 
dear,  so  blooming.  "Her  good  mamma."  Yes,  she  had  been  a  good 
mother  to  the  child,  a  good  wife  to  him.  Memories  of  her  unselfish, 
patient  devotion,  her  life  given  for  him,  rushed  upon  him  like  a  wave  — 
a  wave  that,  long  held  back  by  icy  barriers,  rushes  on  more  overwhelm- 
ingly, relentlessly.  There  could  not  be  a  more  complete  abnegation  of 
self  than  had  been  hers  all  through  their  married  life.  Her  life  had 
been  given  for  his  as  truly  as  if  she  had  laid  it  down  for  his  sake  on 
some  battle-field.  It  was  not  an  easy  thing  for  him  to  stand  thus,  face 
to  face,  with  conscience,  with  these  remorseful  memories,  these  new 
anguished  thoughts  of  the  patient  love  he  had  so  long  slighted.  But  he 
had  make  a  home  for  her,  so  he  sajd  to  himself  ;  he  had  supported  her, 


98  THE  DESERTED  WIVES. 

fed  and  clothed  her.  But  this  relentless  conscience  said  to  him,  that  he 
would  have  done  all  that  for  a  servant,  and  never  would  have  dared  to 
treat  a  servant  as  he  had  her,  knowing  the  servant  would  leave  him  if 
he  did.  This  legally-bound,  patient  thrall  he  knew  could  never  leave 
him,  bound  as  she  had  been  by  her  pride,  her  love  for  him. 

But  lie  had  worked  hard  himself  for  their  united  interests,  had 
been  successful ;  and  was  it  not  for  her  as  much  as  himself  ?  Was  it  ? 
His  conscience  asked  him  now.  Was  it  to  gratify  his  ambitious  desire 
to  be  a  rich  man,  or  was  it  to  make  his  wife's  life  easier,  happier,  more 
perfect  and  complete  that  he  had  striven  ?  Many,  many  questions  did 
his  conscience  put  to  him,  questions  which  he  tried  to  evade,  but  could 
not.  But,  above  all,  did  his  heart  ache  with  the  thought  of  the  patient 
love,  toiling,  year  after  year,  for  his  comfort,  yielding  to  his  most  unrea- 
sonable wishes,  patient  with  his  upbraidings,  his  coldness,  his  cruel 
words,  and  loving  him — loving  him  through  all. 

The  sun  stole  upward  and  stood  over  his  head,  and  slowly,  silently 
the  shadow  of  the  pine  tree  crept  toward  the  east.  He  did  not  notice 
that  the  dinner-horn,  which  always  sounded  punctually  at  noon,  had  not 
been  heard,  did  not  notice  how  far  the  shadow  of  the  pine  tree  over  his 
head  was  reaching  eastward.  He  sat  there,  with  his  face  in  his  hands, 
and  his  golden  ore  falling  unnoticed  in  a  glittering  mass  at  his  feet,  till 
the  loud  sound  of  excited  voices  reached  his  ears,  cpming  from  the 
cabin.  He  rose  and  followed  the  voices.  The  rough  miners  made  way 
for  him  to  enter  his  own  door.  And  there,  by  the  half-prepared  dinner- 
table,  fallen  like  a  good  soldier  at  her  post,  lay  Mrs._Foster — an  honora- 
ble soldier,  worthy  of  a  commander's  stars  and  straps,  in  that  wide 
band  of  household  martyrs  who  fall  unknelled  and  undecorated  by 
admiring  nations,  but  who  surely  will  not  be  forgotten  by  the  great 
Chief  Captain  of  the  world  when  He  makes  out  His  true  roll  of  honor. 

Dead !     So  they  all  called  her.     Dead !     So  the    sorrow-stricken,    . 
conscience-smitten  man,  white  to  his  lips,  said  as  he  bent  over  her,  call- 


THE  DESERTED  WIVES. 


99 


ing  her  by  the  old,  loving  names,  that  surely,  if  her  spirit  were  still  out- 
side the  heavenly  gate,  would  waken  her  to  blissful  consciousness. 
Dead  !  And  he  could  never  tell  her  his  remorse,  never,  never  beg  upon 
his  knees  for  her  forgiveness. 

But  Mrs.  Foster  was  not  dead.  Slowly  did  she  come  back  out  of 
the  terrible  fainting  fit,  that  was  like  the  twin-sister  of  death — came 
back  out  of  the  shadow  of  the  Valley — awoke  to  a  stupor  and  delirium 


MRS.    FOSTER    WAS   NOT    DKAD. 

that  left  her  mercifully  unconscious  of  another  grief  that  fell  upon  the 
sorely-tried  heart  of  her  husband. 

Winnie  was  gone ! 

It  was  sometime  before  they  thought  of  the  child,  so  engrossed 
were  they  with  the  apparently  dead  woman.  It  was  Jake  Wilder  who 
thought  of  her  first.  He  was  tlie  first  man  to  go,  although  they  rushed 
out  at  once  to  search  for  her.  Mr.  Foster,  although  torn  with  anxiety 
about  the  child  he  loved  so  well,  still  stayed  with  his  wife,  of  course. 


100  THE  DESERTED  WIVES. 

At  nightfall  they  came  in  despairing,  went  out  again  in  the  solemn 
darkness,  their  lanterns  gleaming,  like  falling  stars,  through  the  forest- 
paths  and  up  the  woody  side  of  the  canyon.  But  it  was  near  midnight 


THE    SEARCH. 


when  they  came  upon  the  first  trace  of  her,  a  scrap  of  her  white  dress 
torn  off  by  a  thorny  bush.  It  was  on  the  direct  path  that  led  to  a  pre- 
cipitous bluff,  hundreds  of  feet  high,  beneath  which  deep,  muddy  waters 
whirled  and  eddied.  s  Arrived  here,  one  man,  held  by  another  strong 
hand,  peered  over  the  dizzy  verge.  It  was  no  use,  the  man  said,  drawing 
back.  No  human  powrer  could  reach  her  if  she  had  fallen  down  there. 
Even  as  the  man  said  this,  a  child's  cry  was  borne  faintly  upward  from 


THE  DESERTED  WIVES.  101 

the  depths  below.  They  were  brave  men,  bred  to  danger,  and  they  would 
undoubtedly  have  faced  death  with  coolness  and  bravery,  but  they  trem- 
bled and  turned  pale  before  that  faint  child-cry.  Again,  the  man  who 
had  looked  first,  held  by  the  same  strong  hand,  peered  downward  over  the 
straight,  rocky  wall,  and  there  he  could  just  discover,  far,  far  down,  amidst 
a  cluster  of  bushes  and  stunted  trees  that  grew  out  of  a  cleft  in  the  steep 
wall,  a  faint  glimmer  of  white.  In  falling  over  the  cliff,  midway  to 
death,  these  bushes  had  caught  the  child,  and  had  saved  her.  "  No, 
no  human  power  could  save  her."  So  the  man  said,  shuddering  as  he 
looked  downward.  They  only  detained  her  for  a  moment  at  death's 
door. 

At  this  moment  Jake  Wilder  came  up  from  his  search  in  another 
direction.  "  I  will  save  her,"  lie  said,  '•  or  die  with  her."  Life,  to  tell 
the  truth,  was  not  over  sweet  to  Jake  Wilder.  A  hundred  times  during 
the  past  year  had  despair  urged  him  to  end  it,  throw  it  down  as  a  mis- 
erable failure.  Now  he  would  give  it,  give  it  for  the  sweet  little  North- 
ern Blossom,  the  one  being  in  the  world  whose  innocent  little  heart 
loved  him,  trusted  him.  In  vain  his  rough  mates  endeavored  to  dissuade 
him  from  his  suicidal  purposes,  his  vain  attempt,  for  no  one  could  save 
the  child  —  no  one,  they  declared.  It  was  only  throwing  his  life 
away,  too. 

He  knew  it  would  be  impossible  to  reach  the  child  by  going  down- 
ward—  down  that  straight,  steep,  slippery  wall.  His  only  hope  lay  in 
reaching  her  from  beneath,  working  his  way  out  over  the  whirling,  mad 
waters,  and  then  toiling  up  the  steep  precipice,  a  little  less  steep  here ; 
upward,  toiling  upward,  with  that  little  white  form  for  an  inspiration. 
We  read  of  men  whose  conversion  to  good  is  the  work  of  many  years, 
toiling  in  their  upward  path  toward  good,  helped  by  the  inspiration  of  a 
purer  soul,  who  leads  them  gently  upward  by  her  nobler  example,  learn- 
ing, by  the  love  and  patience  of  a  human  soul,  above  them,  yet  still 
beating  for  them,  something  of  the  Divine  Love  and  patience  that 


102  THE  DESERTED  WIVES. 

shines  downward  upon  the  weakest,  lowliest  toiler,  who  looks  upward 
through  these  earthly  mists,  seeking  the  heavenly  light. 

And  we  read  also  of  those  whose  soul's  change  is  the  work  of  a 
moment,  wrought  in  some  crisis,  some  great  temptation  resisted,  some 
wonderful  preservation,  some  despairing  prayer,  that  God  has  answered 
in  the  midst  of  deadly  peril.  Who  shall  say  that  this  rough  miner's 
cry  was  not  heard  in  Heaven — his  frenzied  appeal,  that  perhaps  he  did 
not  call  a  prayer — the  wild  cry  for  Divine  help,  when  his  human 
strength  was  failing  him  —  the  wild  promise,  that,  if  God  would  permit 
him  to  save  the  child,  he  would  be  a  different  man,  a  better  man  ? 
And  so,  in  the  night  and  the  darkness,  he  worked  on,  struggling 
upward,  despairing,  but  fainting  not,  for  love  of  the  little  fair  soul 
above  him,  toiling  slowly  upward,  through  the  solemn  shadows,  near  to 
the  more  solemn  mystery  of  death,  upheld  by  the  Divine  inspiration  of 
love. 

It  was  a  miracle !  That  was  what  his  wondering  companions 
called  it,  as  he  sat  at  the  foot  of  the  precipice,  with  Winnie's  little  form 
pressed  to  his  heart,  and  the  morning  light  faintly  dawning  in  the  east, 
the  fresh,  pure  light  of  another  morning  shining  upon  his  uncovered 
brow,  and  his  earnest  eyes  that  were  filled  with  a  new  purpose.  They 
called  it  a  miracle,  and  talked  loudly  about  it.  He  said  little.  I  have 
noticed  that  heroes  are  rarely  garrulous  concerning  their  heroic  deeds. 
As  soon  as  he  could  walk,  he  bore  Winnie  back  to  the  camp,  disdaining 
any  help  in  carrying  her.  He  said  little,  but  his  rough  cheek,  wet  with 
tears,  lay  upon  Winnie's  little,  fair  face,  the  face  of  the  child  who  loved 
him,  trusted  him ;  and,  as  he  bore  her  onward,  he  murmured  often  in 
her  ear,  "  My  child,  my  own  child,  my  little  Northern  Blossom." 

Did  the  love  and  trust  that  he  read  in  the  pure  little  face,  looking 
up  into  his  so  confidingly,  encourage  him,  reminding  him  of  the  greater 
love,  the  greater  trust,  that  never  tires,  never  wearies,  that  yearns  over 
the  weakest  and  lowliest  wanderer,  longing  to  give  him  Divine  wel- 
come home  ? 


THE  DESERTED    WIVES.  103 

Mrs.  Foster  lay  for  many  weeks  with  death  upon  one  side  of  her, 
and  her  husband's  devoted,  untiring  love  and  care  upon  the  other, 
uncertain  to  whom  would  be  given  the  victory.  And,  in  those  long, 
long  hours  of  watching  and  waiting,  he  learned  more  of  the  heart  his- 
tory of  the  patient,  reticent  woman  than  he  had  ever  known — learned 
through  the  wild  delirium  of  the  aching  heart,  that  had  carried  its  bur- 
den so  silently  and  patiently — learned  of  the  passionate  love,  that,  like 
an  eastern  idolater,  she  had  lavished  upon  her  stone  idol.  It  was  not  a 
stone  idol  now.  No.  His  heart  was  very  human  in  its  aching,  its 
despair,  its  longing  that  she  might  live,  so  that  he  could  redeem  the 
past,  could  teach  her  what  love  was,  what  it  was  to  be  guarded  and 
shielded  by  loving  care,  could  teach  her  what  it  was  to  be  treasured, 
beloved,  precious  to  the  heart  that  had  so  long  slighted  her  goodness, 
her  long-suffering. 

When  the  delirium  of  the  fever  left  her,  a  pale  shadow  hovering 
upon  the  mysterious  intermediate  realm  between  life  and  death,  I  think 
it  was  her  husband's  kisses  upon  her  face,  his  loving  words  lavished  so 
freely,  that  wrought  the  real  miracle  of  restoration.  Dr.  Quackenbos 
thought  it  was  his  pills. 

As  for  the  man  they  called  Jake  Wilder,  the  change  wrought  in 
him  in  that  hour  of  peril  and  agony  was  not  evanescent.  He  said 
little,  but  his  life  spoke.  A  weary  woman  in  Atholton  read  of  that 
change,  in  burdens  lifted  from  her  by  a  stronger  hand,  in  letters  doing 
her  a  tardy  justice,  in  repentance,  in  promises  of  future  well-doing. 
And  so  John  Ford  returned  to  his  wife. 

Newell  Foster  sold  his  claim  with  large  profits,  and  built  a  splendid 
mansion  in  his  native  village  of  Atholton,  in  which  his  wife  and  beauti- 
ful daughter  dwelt  like  princesses.  It  was  an  elegant  place,  furnished 
as  was  no  other  house  in  the  place.  Well-trained  servants  relieved  Mrs. 
Foster  of  all  the  drudgery  of  domestic  toil.  And  people  thought,  as 
they  looked  in  Mrs.  Foster's  happy,  rosy  face,  that  the  content  and  hap- 


104 


THE  DESERTED    WIVES. 


piness  that  was  to  be  so  plainly  read  there  were  caused  by  the  beauty 
of  her  surroundings  and  the  ease  of  her  life.  But  she  knew,  in  her 
heart,  that  the  secret  of  her  joy  was  not  in  these,  although  they  were 
very  pleasant,  but  in  this,  that  her  husband,  who  had  deserted  her, 
had  returned  to  her. 

In  an  humbler  home,  John  Ford  and  his  wife  were  practicing  the 
old  lesson  they  had  scorned  to  learn  once,  to  bear  and  forbear.  Mr. 
Foster  helped  John  Ford  to  a  business  that  enabled  him  to  support  his 
family  in  comfort.  And  so  John  Ford  returned  to  his  wife,  and  was 
forgiven.  And  the  Weekly  Enlightener  made  a  good  thing  out  of  it,  in 
the  way  of  an  editorial,  warmly  commending  the  repentance  and  the 
forgiveness,  in  words  nearly  all  of  which  were  from  three  to  four  sylla- 
bles in  length.  And  Newell  Foster  returned  to  his  wife  also  ;  and  since 
God  and  his  angels  made  note  of  it,  I  think  it  is  of  comparatively  little 
moment  that  the  editor  of  the  Weekly  Enlightener  did  not  record  the 
fact  in  its  columns. 


MABEL    WINGATE. 


RS.  WINGATE  was  the  President  of  the 
Deansville  Female  Dorcas  Society  for  the  re- 
lief of  the  heathens.  The  benighted  state  of 
the  "hethings"  (I  am  sorry  to  say  she 
pronounced  it  thus,)  was  a  constant  source  of  uneasiness  to  the  portly 
relict  of  Elnathan  Wingate. 

Her  eyes  had  always  been  noted  for  their  far-reaching  views, 
gifted  like  Mrs.  Jelloby's  with  the  faculty  of  looking  calmly  over  house- 
hold wants  and  native  sufferers  into  foreign  jungles  and  cactus  thickets, 
seeking  after  prowling  heathens  upon  whom  to  bestow  her  charities. 
But  I  think  for  the  past  year  she  had  been  more  solicitous  than  ever 
for  their  welfare,  since  the  wife  of  young  Dr.  Dean  had  died,  leaving 
the  vacancy  in  the  above  society  which  Mrs.  Wingate  now  so  ably 
filled.  We  say  young  Dr.  Dean,  but  he  was  not  so  very  young ;  he  was 
past  forty,  to  be  exact.  But  he  was  always  called  the  young  doctor 
to  distinguish  him  from  his  father,  who  had  been  the  village  doctor 
before  him,  and  who  still  dwelt  in  the  village  with  his  good  wife. 

John  Dean  the  father,  and  Ellis  Dean  the  son,  (he  was  an  only 
child,)  were  very  popular  in  the  village;  in  fact,  the  village  took  its 
name  from  the  elder  gentleman,  he  having  owned  the  most  of  the 

(107) 


108  MRS-    WINGA1WS  CHARITY, 

land  upon  which  the  village  was  founded,  some  fifty  years  before. 
The  village  had  grown  rapidly,  and  of  a  consequence,  their  wealth  had 
increased;  they  were  the  richest  men  in  the  place,  and,  what  is  not 
always  the  case,  they  were  the  most  respected  and  beloved. 

Mrs.  Ellis  Dean  had  been  a  childless  woman,  whose  great  heart 
ached  over  all  suffering,  and  who  had  abundant  means  and  leisure  to 
bestow  upon  private  and  public  charities.  She  attended  well  to  the 
wants  of  her  household ;  her  servants  found  in  her  a  most  indulgent 
and  generous  mistress.  The  poor  and  needy  about  her  received  her 
attention  and  bounty  first,  and  then  as  she  had  still  abundant  means 
and  time  left,  she  next  extended  her  care  to  more  remote  sufferers. 

Her  husband  was  the  most  warm-hearted  and  charitable  of  men. 
This  gentle  woman  having  left  him,  he  now  dwelt  alone  with  only  ser- 
vants for  companions  in  his  great  house  overlooking  the  village.  And 
rumor  said  he  had  been  heard  to  observe  to  his  close  friend,  the 
village  clergyman,  "  that  it  was  not  good  for  man  to  live  alone."  It 
was  a  Sabbath  noon  that  he  was  reported  to  have  said  this,  the  very 
Sabbath  that  Mabel  Wingate  came  to  church  the  first  time,  011  her 
return  from  the  boarding-school  where  she  had  been  for  the  past  five 
years. 

She  had  not  been  a  pupil  for  the  last  three  years.  Rumor  said 
she  preferred  the  life  of  a  teacher  to  that  of  being  a  dependent  upon 
the  bounty  of  a  step-mother  —  her  father,  who  was  rather  a  meek  and 
easily  influenced  old  gentleman,  having  made  a  very  singular  will, 
giving  his  wife  the  control  of  it  all  during  her  life. 

It  made  a  great  excitement  in  Deansville  at  the  time,  people  very 
justly  believing  that  it  was  a  triumph  of  Mrs.  Wingate' s  rather  plotting 
turn  of  mind.  But  that  had  taken  place  three  years  before,  and 
newer  excitements  had  driven  it  out  of  the  minds  of  the  people.  But 
now  Mabel  had  come  home.  Her  step-mother  had  had  a  severe  though 
short  fit  of  sickness,  and  thinking  she  was  about  to  die,  had  sent  for 


MRS.    WINGATETS  CHARITY,  109 

Mabel.  Perhaps  her  conscience  was  aroused,  but  by  the  time  Mabel 
readied  her,  her  fever  had  abated,  her  conscience  twinges  also.  But 
a  new  teacher  was  engaged  for  the  term  to  fill  Mabel's  place,  so  she 
was  forced  to  remain  until  she  could  get  a  new  situation.  The  first 
Sabbath  Mabel  went  to  church,  Dr.  Dean  thought  he  had  never  seen 
a  lovelier  face  than  hers.  His  pew  was  directly  back  of  Mrs.  Win- 
gate's.  (It  is  said  that  Mrs.  Wingate  paid  ten  dollars  extra  to  obtain 
that  seat,  it  having  been  warmly  sought  for  by  the  widow  Kelley, 
and  partly  promised  to  three  maiden  sisters,  the  Misses  Dagget.)  Dr. 
Dean  thought  he  had  never  seen  a  sweeter  sight  than  that  gently 
drooping  head  bending  devoutly  over  her  prayer  book,  the  pearly  neck 
sometimes  gleaming  through  the  long  brown  curls,  the  tender  sensi- 
tive mouth,  the  large,  soft,  wistful  brown  eyes,  that  seemed  pleading 
for  love  and  sympathy.  She  kept  these  wonderful  eyes  bent  very 
earnestly  either  upon  her  book  or  the  minister's  face,  but  once  they 
lifted  to  his  face  as  she  left  her  seat.  It  was  almost  directly  after 
this  that  he  made  to  the  clergyman  this  remark  we  have  just  quoted. 
Not  a  singular  remark  at  all.  Many  bereaved  ones  have  experienced 
the  same  sentiments.  Many  men  surrounded  by  female  relatives  have 
experienced  an  overwhelming  source  of  lonesomeness,  and  need  of 
female  society.  Bereaved  women,  too,  have  experienced  their  firm 
conviction  that  it  is  not  good  to  dwell  alone.  Mrs.  "Wingate  had  said 
the  same  to  him,  when,  soon  after  his  wife's  death,  she  sent  for  him 
to  extract  a  tooth  (nearly  sound).  She  said  to  him  with  much  feel- 
ing:—  "That  it  was  awful  lonesome  'livin"  alone,  when  anybody  had 
lost  a  dear  companion."  But  she  added  immediately,  for  she  thought 
of  the  doctor's  reputation  for  charity,  "  that  she  felt  ashamed  to  com- 
plain of  lonesomeness  when  she  thought  of  the  hethings ;  what  was 
her  lonesomeness  compared  with  the  hethings'  lonesomeness." 

Dr.  Dean  did  not  give  his  opinion  concerning  the  heathen's  social 
state,  and   she  continued  with  a  warm   gush  of  sentiment  to  ask  his 


HO  MRS.    WING  ATE' S  CH AMITY. 

advice,  whether  red  mittens,  or  striped  bine  and  white  ones  would  be 
the  most  acceptable  to  the  young  heathens.  It  was  while  she  was 
asking  him  this  question  that  Tom,  "the  boy  she  took"  from  the 
poor-house,  came  into  the  room  with  a  load  of  wood.  It  was  a  very 
cold  day,  and  the  boy  ventured,  after  he  had  laid  the  wood  down,  to 
spread  his  long  thin  hands  before  the  cheerful  blaze.  Mrs.  Wingate 
only  looked  at  him,  but  the  boy  obeyed  the  look  as  he  would  a  musket. 
He  left  the  room  instantly,  and  the  doctor  going  out  directly  after- 
wards, found  him  shivering  on  the  door-step,  and  wiping  his  eyes. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ? "  said  the  doctor,  with  his  great,  cheer- 
ful voice. 

"  I  wish  I  was  a  hething ;  I  would  give  a  cent  if  I  was  one  this 
minit." 

"  Why  do  you  wish  that  ? "   said  the  doctor. 

"  Because  1  am  so  cold,  and  haint  nothin'  to  wear,  and  don't 
have  no  mittens,  and  if  I  was  a  hething,  I  should  be  tended  to,  and 
I  am  most  froze  this  very  minute ;  I  know  I  be." 

"  Why  don't  you  go  in  and  warm  you  ? " 

"She  wont  lem'me  stay  in  a  minute,  Miss  Wingit  wont;  says  I 
must  work,  says  I  don't  earn  my  salt,  and  I  don't  eat  much  salt  any 
way,  I  know  I  don't,  and  I  am  at  it  from  mornin'  till  night,  diggin' 
away  at  sunthin'  or  other.  I  wish  to  gracious  Peter,  I  was  a  hething, 
I  know  I  do." 

"  Well,  I  guess  you  do  have  to  work  pretty  hard  now.  But  it  is  a 
long  lane  that  never  turns.  There  will  be  brighter  days  for  you, 
sometime ;  you  will  see  there  will,  Tom.  Now  you  run  in  and  warm 
your  fingers.  Don't  be  afraid,  she  will  let  you  stay."  And  opening 
the  door,  the  doctor  put  his  head  in  and  called  Mrs.  Wingate,  who 
came  bustling  to  the  door,  with  the  sweetest  of  smiles. 

"  Here  is  a  little  native  object  that  you  can  spend  some  of  the 
benevolence  of  your  warm  heart  upon ;  he  says  he  is  cold,  and  wants 
to  go  to  the  fire." 


MES.    WINGATE'S  CHARITY. 

"  Bless  the  dear  child !  why  didn't  he  come  right  in  ? " 

Tom  knew,  but  he  also  knew  it  wouldn't  do  to  tell  his  thoughts. 
So  he  slipped  silently  by  and  luxuriated  in  the  warmth  of  the  genial 
blaze  while  he  could.  He  was  not  permitted  to  remain  there  long. 
But  all  the  day  while  he  toiled  out  in  the  cold,  the  words  of  the 
doctor  cheered  his  lonely  heart.  "  It  is  a  long  lane  that  never 
turns." 

This  occurred  about  a  year  before  Mrs.  Wingate's  sickness,  when 
Mabel  came  home,  and  the  doctor  made  the  memorable  speech  to  which 
we  have  referred,  "  That  it  was  not  good  for  man  to  live  alone." 
Mrs.  Wingate's  convalescence  was  slow ;  after  a  few  weeks  she  seemed 
to  all  appearance  well ;  but  every  heart  knoweth  its  own  bitterness, 
and  who  may  question  the  President  of  the  Dorcas  Society,  as  to  the 
need  of  a  physician.  With  great  earnestness  she  continually  affirmed 
"  that  she  felt  awful  run  down,  and  she  must  have  the  doctor  every 
day  or  two." 

And  she  further  remarked  to  her  bosom  friend,  the  grocer's  wife, 
and  the  Vice-President  of  the  Dorcas,  "  That  Dr.  Dean  hadn't  never 
been  so  punctual  a  comin',  and  never  had  n't  stayed  so  long  before 
as  he  did  now ;  he  was  dretful  inspirin'  in  his  conversation,  made 
her  think  dretfully  of  her  deceased  companion." 

But  the  strongest  sunshine  casts  the  darkest  shadow,  and  Mrs. 
Wingate  informed  the  doctor  one  day  "  that  after  he  went  away, 
every  time,  she  had  to  cry,  because  it  brung  up  her  loneliness  more'n 
more ;  made  her  think  so  much  of  her  deceased  companion,  that  she 
couldn't  keep  from  cryin',  though  she  knew  it  was  wrong,  knowin' 
her  state  was  so  much  more  comfortable  than  the  nothings.  But 
still  no  tongue  could  tell  how  much  he  reminded  her  of  her  deceased 
companion,  and  nobody  could  tell  her  lonesomeness  only  them  who 
had  gone  through  the  same  affectin'  circumstances,  and  was  in  the 
same  lonesome  state." 


112  MfiS.   WlNGATfTS  CHARITY. 

The  doctor  did  not  call  the  next  day,  nor  all  that  week.  But 
the  next  Sabbath,  the  wistful  brown  eyes  so  touched  his  heart  with 
their  tender  sunshine,  that  Monday  afternoon  he  called. 

Mrs.  Wingate  had  left  home  that  day  for  the  first  time.  The 
Dorcas  met  that  day  at  the  Vice-President's,  and  the  bosom  friend 
could  not  be  denied  the  privilege  of  her  advice  and  company. 

As  a  truthful  historian,  I  must  conceal  nothing,  and  regretting 
warmly  as  I  do,  that  I  cannot  make  my  hero  that  faultless  being 
that  usually  roams  over  the  pages  of  magazines  and  periodicals  — 
still  at  the  risk  of  ruining  him  forever  in  the  estimation  of  right- 
minded  people,  I  must  say  that  when  he  went  to  call  on  his  patient 
that  day,  he  knew  she  was  not  at  home.  He  saw  her  portly  back 
in  the  window  of  the  Yice-President's  mansion  as  he  passed  a  mile 
back.  How  then  shall  I  apologize  for  his  look  of  mild  astonishment 
to  find  her  absent,  and  no  one  but  Mabel  at  home  ?  I  shall  not 
attempt  to  palliate  his  guilt,  and  by  so  doing  make  myself  almost 
equally  guilty. 

Mabel  blushed  when  she  looked  up  and  saw  the  doctor,  and  who 
can  wonder,  for  she  was  engaged  in  business,  such  as  no  heroine  was 
ever  engaged  in  before,  I  am  confident.  What  was  it  ?  I  will  tell 
you.  When  Mrs.  W.  left  home  that  day,  she  did  as  she  always  did, 
left  Tom  employment  enough  to  keep  him  from  the  evil  effects  of 
idleness.  But  upon  this  occasion,  she  went  beyond  even  herself,  and 
left  him  more  work,  (it  was  picking  over  beans,)  than  any  pair  of 
hands,  however  nimble,  could  possibly  do.  But  he  must  finish  it  before 
her  return  or  go  to  bed  supperless,  and  be  whipped  into  'the  bargain. 
And  Tom  knew  by  almost  daily  experience  that  Mrs.  Wingate's  whip- 
pings were  not  easy  to  endure.  There  were  two  bushels  of  the  beans, 
and  as  poor  Tom  looked  at  the  formidable  pile  of  snowy  kernels 
mingled  liberally  with  stones  and  sticks  which  he  was  to  separate 
like  sheep  from  goats,  the  magnitude  of  the  undertaking,  and  his 


MBS.    WING  ATE' S  CHARITY. 

inability  to  accomplish  it  in  time,  and  the  dreadful  consequences  of 
his  failure,  all  rushed  over  him  like  a  wave,  and  he  lifted  up  his  voice 
and  wept. 

Mabel  was  in  the  parlor  making  a  shirt  for  him  out  of  her  own 
half-worn  garments.  She  thought  as  she  looked  at  Tom's  bare  arms 
swinging  half  out  of  his  ragged  sleeves,  that  this  was  her  duty  rather 
th  in  attend  the  Dorcas  Society  that  day.  And  to  tell  the  truth,  Mrs. 
Wingate  did  not  ask  her  to  go  —  possibly  she  wanted  to  discuss 
Mabel's  shortcomings  with  her  bosom  friend. 

When  Mabel  heard  Tom's  voice  rising  in  its  dire  grief,  her  soft 
little  heart,  which  could  never  endure  the  sight  of  any  human  misery, 
was  touched  at  once,  and  she  dropped  her  sewing  and  went  to  his 
assistance.  She  had  been  there  perhaps  an  hour,  and  between  them 
the  pile  was  rapidly  lessening,  arid  further  to  the  delight  of  Tom's 
soul,  she  was  telling  him  a  wonderful  story,  one  of  Hans  Christian 
Andersen's.  Tom's  hands  were  busy,  but  he  was  not  there  in  that 
dingy  kitchen ;  borne  by  the  sweet  voice,  upward,  outward,  he  had 
entered  a  fiery  palace  —  he  had  found  the  enchanted  lamp  —  he 
was  the  custodian  of  royal  treasures.  It  was  just  at  this  moment, 
as  Tom's  eyes  large  and  sparkly  were  raised  to  Mabel's  face  —  she, 
with  her  light  muslin  sleeves  thrown  back  from  her  white  dimpled  arm, 
busy  at  her  work  —  smiling  the  rosiest  of  smiles  upon  poor  Tom, 
entrancing  him  with  her  romancing.  Just  at  this  moment  the  doctor 
entered,  and  Mabel  blushed  as  we  said.  And  it  seemed  that  her  very 
coloring  was  infectious,  for  as  our  handsome  doctor  looked  full  into 
her  gleaming  face,  a  warm  coloring  swept  up  into  his  own.  For  a 
moment  they  looked  in  spite  of  their  good  standing  in  community  and 
their  unblemished  reputation,  like  two  guilty  criminals,  and  to  tell  the 
truth,  I  am  afraid  they  were  guilty  of  theft.  I  am  afraid  they  had 
stolen  each  other's  hearts.  As  we  have  said,  Tom  and  our  good  doctor 
were  sworn  friends,  and  a  few  words  from  Tom's  grateful  heart  told 
8 


114  MRS.    WINGATE'S  CHARITY. 

the  story.  And  then  nothing  to  do,  but  the  doctor  must  sit  down  by 
the  table  and  help.  Oh !  blissful  kitchen  walls !  Oh !  rapturous  em- 
ployment !  The  swiftly  decreasing  pile  might  have  been  diamonds  and 
pearls  for  all  the  doctor  and  Mabel  knew.  Unhappy  Mrs.  Wingate ! 
tell  short  stories  at  the  Dorcas  Society,  cut  short  your  revelations  to 
your  bosom  friend  about  Dr.  Dean's  intentions,  and  your  fast  vanish- 
ing lonesomeness.  A  weaker  hand  than  yours  has  taken  him  captive, 
and  is  leading  him. 

Mabel  and  the  doctor  stood  by  Tom  faithfully  till  they  left  him 
with  a  task  easy  to  accomplish.  And  then  they  went  into  the  sunny 
parlor  flooded  with  the  western  sunshine,  and  the  rarer  glow  of  heart 
light.  And  Mabel  at  the  doctor's  request  opened  the  old  piano  that 
had  been  her  mother's,  and  sung  for  him  sweet  English  ballads,  and 
quaint  German  songs,  and  the  golden  sun  moved  on  too  rapidly,  as 
they  talked  of  books,  authors,  and  what  not,  and  his  eyes  told  that 
wonderful  story,  old,  yet  forever  new,  and  Mabel's  beating  heart  trans- 
lated it. 

This  happy,  happy  call  of  the  doctor's  at  Mrs.  Wingate's  was  not 
the  last,  we  can  assure  you,  and  Mrs.  Wingate  told  her  bosom  friend  at 
the  next  meeting  of  the  Dorcas  Society,  "  that  nobody  could  tell  only 
them  that  was  in  an  afflicted  state,  how  comforting  it  was  to  have 
Dr.  Dean  so  neighborly ;  three  times  that  week  he  had  been  there,  and 
each  time  reminded  her  more  and  more  of  her  deceased  companion." 

Then  the  Vice-President  joked  her  openly,  and  said  '•  she  guessed 
somebody  wouldn't  remain  a  relict  long."  And  Mrs.  Wingate  smiled 
a  very  conscious  smile,  and  said  "  she  felt  different  from  what  she 
used  to  about  folks'es  marryin'  the  second  time,  and  she  thought  Dr. 
Dean  had  mourned  in  a  lonesome  state  long  enough." 

"Just  so,"  said  the  Vice-President,  "his  wife  couldn't  be  any 
deader  twenty  years  from  now  than  she  is  now."  As  was  only  proper 
for  such  near  friends,  they  interchanged  a  good  many  such  thoughts, 


MRS.   WING ATE '8  CHARITY.  115 

and  then  the  subject  drifted  round  to  the  one  that  most  deeply 
interested  them  at  that  time:  the  fast  approaching  fair.  The  next 
meeting  of  the  Society,  and  the  last  one  before  the  fair,  was  to  be 
held  at  Mrs.  Wingate's.  All  the  articles  must  be  completed,  for,  as 
Mrs.  Wingate  well  remarked,  u  the  money  ought  to  be  sent  on  before 
winter  sets  in,  so  the  hethings  could  purchase  their  winter  clothing." 

The  ladies  of  the  society  worked  hard  and  exclusively  at  their 
employment.  Cold  weather  came  on  suddenly,  and  severely.  And 
the  father  of  the  Vice-President,  an  old  gentleman  given  to  asthma, 
took  to  his  bed  through  exposure  to  the  cold.  He  had  purchased 
woolen  cloth  for  shirts,  but  his  daughter  had  no  time  to  make  them,, 
her  energies  being  so  intent  in  obtaining  winter  clothing  for  the 
Ethiopians.  The  Secretary's  two  little  boys  went  round  with  bare 
hands  and  summer  pantaloons,  that  showed  their  cold  red  knees.  They 
had  bad  colds,  but  their  father  at  night  gave  them  Hive's  Syrup,  and 
cheered  them  with  hoarhound  candy ;  but  with  all  his  care,  the  chil- 
dren suffered  much. 

The  Treasurer's  bed-ridden  mother  had  a  dangerous  relapse,  her 
daughter  having  forgotten  her  for  nearly  a  whole  day.  On  the  after- 
noon, suddenly  remembering  her,  she,  conscience  stricken,  deluged  her 
with  water  gruel  and  cream  toast.  But  the  old  lady  being  regular 
in  her  habits,  and  weak,  the  forced  abstinence  told  on  her.  But  poor 
little  Tom  suffered  most  of  all.  As  we  said,  the  next  meeting  was 
to  be  held  at  Mrs.  Wingate's,  and  it  was  a  busy  time  there.  For, 
as  Mrs.  Wingate  told  her  bosom  friend,  "  she  was  determined  to  have 
the  best  supper  that  had  been  given  by  any  of  the  Society."  This 
was  not  done  to  astonish  the  Society,  merely,  but  being  President, 
and  therefore  supposed  to  be  answerable  to  no  laws,  and  being  abetted 
by  the  Vice-President,  told  her  under  a  gentle  vein  of  obscurity,  "  that 
when  a  certain  man  was  paying  attentions  to  a  certain  woman,  it  was 
only  that  woman's  duty  to  invite  that  certain  man  when  there  was 


116  MRS.    WING  ATE' S  CHARITY. 

going  to  be  doings  there."  Mrs.  Wingate  was  going  to  invite  Dr. 
Dean  to  be  present  at  the  supper,  if  no  longer. 

It  was  the  twentieth  day  of  October,  about  a  week  before  the 
society  was  to  meet  at  Mrs.  Wingate's,  and  the  very  day  before  the 
sudden  change  in  the  weather,  from  warm  to  severe  cold,  that  Mabel 
was  taken  sick  with  diphtheria,  so  she  could  not  assist  Mrs.  Wingate 
in  her  preparations,  nor  befriend  poor  Tom  who  went  shivering  around 
in  his  insufficient  garments,  working  from  morn  till  night,  eating  his 
scanty  cold  meals  when  he  could  —  sometimes  when  the  fever  of  pre- 
paration ran  too  high,  going  without  them  —  driven  round  by  his  mis- 
tress as  she  would  not  drive  a  horse,  for  she  was  too  careful  of  her 
property  to  risk  the  well-being  of  a  horse  with  incessant  labor,  with- 
out rest,  sufficient  food,  and  warmth. 

Mrs.  Wingate  sent  for  Dr.  Dean  a  day  or  two  after  Mabel  was 
taken  sick.  The  doctor  ran  his  best  horse  as  it  had  never  been 
driven,  for  he  was  usually  merciful  to  man  and  beast.  But  to  his 
delight  he  found  there  had  been  no  need  for  such  hot  haste.  She 
was  not  so  sick  after  all.  It  would  probably  confine  her  to  her  room 
several  days ;  but  there  was  nothing  alarming  about  it.  Shall  we  say 
that  Dr.  Dean  lavished  his  finest  skill  in  the  treatment  of  his  beau- 
tiful patient  ?  No,  we  will  not  say  so,  for  it  is  a  rule  with  us  not  to 
make  needless  remarks.  Shall  we  say  that  the  tenderness  and  sym- 
pathy Mabel  saw  in  her  doctor's  kind  eyes  was  better  than  his  medi- 
cine ?  No,  we  will  not  use  vain  words  like  the  heathen. 

It  was  during  Dr.  Dean's  first  visit  that  Mrs.  Wingate,  in  her  evi- 
dent admiration  for  him,  said  : — 

"  As  I  was  a  telling  you,  doctor,  I  want  you  to  do  everything  you 
can  for  her;  come  every  day  if  it  is  necessary  —  or  twice  a  day.  I 
shan't  begrudge  the  money.  Her  poor  deceased  father  left  the  whole 
of  his  property  to  me,  during  my  life,  as  is  well  known,  for  it  made 
lots  of  talk  at  the  time,  as  you  well  remember.  Lots  of  folks  being 


MRS.    WINQATE'S  CHARITY. 


117 


mean  enough  to  say  that  I  coaxed  him  up  and  took  the  advantage 
of  him,  to  get  him  to  will  it  to  me.  But  there  haint  a  word  of 
truth  in  it  as  can  be  proved,  for  he  was  alone  in  the  room  with  the 
lawyer  when  he  made  his  will ;  how  could  I  take  the  advantage  of 

him,  and  coax  him  up  when  1 
wasn't  there  ?  But  as  I  was  a 
saying,  for  all  he  left  all  of  his 
property  to  me,  one  farm  jining 


GIVING   HIM    POINTS. 


your  place,  as  you  know,  your 
paster  being  on  one  side  of  the 
fence,  and  mine  on  the  'other,  and 

as  I  was  savin'  to  the  Yice-President  the  other  day,  says  I,  Harriet, 
if  that  fence  was  only  throwed  down,  there  wouldn't  be  a  paster  equal 
to  it  in  the  country.  But  as  I  was  a  sayin'  to  you,  for  all  Mabel 
is  dependent  on  me  for  everything  as  long  as  I  live,  I  want  you  to 
do  well  by  her,  and  I  am  willin',  and  more  than  willin'  that  you  should 


118  MRS.    WINOATSTS  CHARITY. 


come  every  day  ;    mebbe  you  wont  have  a  chance  to  see  me  always." 

Here  a  look  of  warm  relief  came  into  the  doctor's  handsome 
face.  But  Mrs.  Wingate  did  not  observe  it,  and  went  on  :  — 

"  I  am  so  took  up  a  working  for  the  good  of  the  hethings.  The 
next  meeting  is  to  be  held  here,  and  I  want  you  to  come,  so  I  said 
to  my  friend,  the  Vice-President,  says  I,  Harriet,  if  I  am  turned  out 
of  the  Society  the  next  minute,  I  am  going  to  invite  Dr.  Dean.  Says 
I,  Harriet,  what  first  drawed  me  towards  that  man,  a  religious  drawin' 
of  course,  was  when  I  heard  folks  a  telling  what  a  hand  he  was  to 
do  good  to  his  fellow  creatures.  1  felt  that  here  was  a  congenial  soul 
that  would  sympathize  with  me  in  my  yearning  of  spirit  over  the 
hething.  Says  I,  Harriet,  it  makes  me  love  the  hethings  better  to 
think  he  loves  'em  so  well.  And  oh  !  my  dear  doctor,  what  a  blessed 
work  that  is.  Nobody  knows  how  I  feel  for  them  benighted  souls 
that  know  not  the  language  of  prayer,  and  know  not  what  good 
clothing  is.  Nobody  knows  the  tears  I  shed  for  'em  when  every  body 
thinks  I  am  asleep.  Seven  bed-quilts  have  we  pieced  up  this  summer 
for  them,  besides  another  cut  out,  and  my  table  at  the  fair  will  be 
perfectly  loaded  with  things  I  have  made  myself.  Of  course  you  will 
be  to  the  fair,  and  you  must  be  sure  to  come  to  the  next  society 
meeting." 

Here,  through  the  inexorable  necessity  for  breath  to  carry  on  the 
breathing  apparatus,  Mrs.  Wingate  was  obliged  to  stop  for  a  moment, 
and  the  doctor,  seizing  the  opportunity,  succeeded  in  taking  his  im- 
mediate departure. 

As  he  passed  out  into  the  highway,  and  was  unfastening  his 
horse  that  was  rather  restless  in  the  keen  frosty  air,  little  Tom  passed 
him.  His  thin,  pale  face,  blue  with  cold,  looked  pinched  and  worn, 
and  oh  !  so  very  cold.  His  clothing  was  far  better  for  July  than 
November,  and  his  boots  which  had  formerly  been  the  property  of  Mr. 
Wingate,  were  still  not  large  enough  to  conceal  his  suffering  stocking- 


119 


MRS.    WING ATE 'S  CHARITY. 

less  feet.     He  had  a  large  load  1 

of  rough  scraggly  wood  in  his 
arms,  apple  boughs  and  limbs 
cut  with  much  labor  into  the 
requisite  length,  his  long,  bony, 
bare  wrists  showing  to  forlorn 
advantage,  clasping  his  rugged 
burden.  The  doctor  spoke  cheer- 
ily to  the  little  man,  it  was  a 
way  of  his,  and  poor  cold  little 
Tom  almost  thought  the  air  grew 
warmer  beneath  the  kindly  light 
of  the  gray  eyes. 

"  You  are  at  work  busy  as 
over  this  cold  day,  I  see,  Tom." 

"  Yes,  sir ;  Mrs.  Wingit 
wanted  it  brung  in,  and  I'm  a 
bringin'  on  it." 

"  Haven't  you  plenty  of 
wood  in  the  wood-house  ? " 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  but  she  wanted 
it  chopped  up  out  of  the  way, 
and  I'm  a  choppin'  of  it.  Tough- 
er'n  fury  to  cut,  but  I'd  rather 
cut  it  than  bring  it  in,  I  know 
I  had.  It  is  a  long  ways  to 
bring  it  —  hands  get  cold,  and  it 
makes  my  back  ache." 

"  There  will  be  brighter  days 
for  you  Tom." 

How   to   bring   these   "  brighter   days,"   the  good   doctor  did  not 


120  MR&  WING  ATE' 8  CHARITY. 

know,  for  Tom  was  legally  bound  to  Mrs.  Wingate,  and  as  for  com- 
plaining of  inhumanity  in  the  President  of  the  Dorcas  Society  for 
the  relief  of  the  heathens  —  perish  the  irreverent  thought.  But  still 
the  doctor  repeated  the  words  that  might  give  some  comfort  to  the 
heart  that  so  sorely  needed  comfort,  adding :  — 

"  Don't  you  know  I  have  always  told  you  so ;  your  turn  will 
come  some  day ;  it  is  a  long  lane  that  never  turns ;  don't  you  know 
I  have  always  told  you  so,  Tom  ? " 

"Yes'ir." 

"  But  at  the  present  time,  your  hands  ache,  don't  they  ?  " 

"  Yes'ir." 

Tom  had  rested  his  hands  up  against  the  fence  while  he  was  talking 
with  the  doctor,  and  he  looked  down  now  with  a  sort  of  pitying  expres- 
sion upon  the  little  bare  red  extremities. 

"  Miss  Mabel  said  she'd  make  me  some  mittens  out  of  broadcloth, 
she's  got  a  piece.  She'll  make  'em  I  guess  when  she  gets  well 
enough.  She's  goin'  to  get  well,  ain't  she  ? "  And  Tom  looked  wish- 
fully up  into  the  doctor's  face. 

"  Yes,  she  will  get  well,  I  think.  So  she  is  going  to  make  you 
a  pair  of  mittens  ? " 

"  Yes,  sir ;  she  said  she'd  gimme  some.  Awfully  hope  she'll  get 
well ;  it's  lonesomer'ii  fury  without  her.  She's  gooder'n  anything  you 
ever  see ;  stands  jawin'  first  rate.  Mrs.  Wingit  jaws  her  awfully  some- 
times— helps  me  lots.  Mends  up  my  clothes  some  when  she  is  well. 
They  are  tored  out  agin  now."  And  Tom  looked  down  ruefully  upon 
his  bare  knees. 

"  Well,  as  she  isn't  well  enough  to  make  your  mittens,  and  it  is  so 
cold,  suppose  you  take  these." 

And  Dr.  Dean  pulled  off  his  warm  fur-lined  gloves,  and  laid  them 
on  Tom's  hands ;  and  before  grateful  Tom  could  scarcely  say  a  word  of 
thanks  he  sprang  into  his  buggy  and  drove  off. 


MRS.  WING  ATE*  8  CHARITY.  121 

Tom  put  on  the  warm  gloves,  wondering  at  their  warmth,  their 
softness,  and  went  toward  the  house  with  a  lighter  step.  Not  so  very 
light,  however,  for  of  late  Tom  had  found  it  hard  work  to  drag  about ; 
he  seemed  to  have  but  little  strength.  Mrs.  Wingate  called  it  lazi- 
ness. 

The  meeting  at  Mrs.  Wingate's  was  pronounced  a  success.  Her 
supper  far  surpassed  anything  that  had  been  known  in  the  annals  of  the 
Dorcas.  But  when  did  the  blossom  of  perfect  happiness  ever  spring 
from  earthly  soil  ?  In  Mrs.  Wingate's  heart  an  arrow  rankled.  Dr. 
Dean  could  not  attend ;  business  unfortunately  demanded  his  attend- 
ance elsewhere.  So  he  had  told  Mrs.  Wingate  the  morning  of  the 
party,  when  he  left  after  a  long  call  upon  Mabel. 

"  It  was  aggravating."  So  the  President  told  the  Vice-President  in 
confidence,  on  a  lounge  behind  her  bedroom  door.  "Harriet,  it  is 
aggravating.  And  there  I  sent  Tom  to  the  village  after  dark  in  the 
snow  and  rain  for  some  vanilla  for  the  ice  cream,  having  happened  to 
hear  the  doctor  say  he  preferred  it  to  any  other  seasoning.  Tom  made 
a  great  fuss  about  going — said  he  was  sick;  but  I  wouldn't  hear  a  word 
to  it.  I  wont  countenance  complaining.  I  thought  my  soul  that  he 
never  would  come  back.  Of  course  he  went  afoot.  I  wouldn't  take  a 
horse  out  in  the  storm ;  and  he  just  moped  along  like  a  snail.  It  pro- 
voked me  so  that  I  put  him  to  bed  without  his  supper." 

"  Good  enough  for  him,"  said  the  Vice-President.  "  But  where  is 
he  ?  I  haven't  seen  him  to-day." 

"No,  he  has  laid  round  all  day.  1  haven't  got  enough  out  of  him 
to-day  to  pay  for  his  salt.  But  he  has  got  to  stir  his  stumps  now,  for 
some  woolen  yarn  has  got  to  be  had  to  finish  the  mittens,  and  some 
pink  calico  to  finish  the  bed-quilt ;  and  Tom  has  got  to  go,  or  I'll  tell 
him  the  reason  why." 

He  pleaded  hard  against  going  to  the  village;  but  Mrs.  Wingate 
was  inexorable.  The  fair  was  to  be  the  next  week.  No  time  could  be 


122 


MBS.  WING ATE' S  CHAHITY. 


wasted,  for  the  good  of  the  heath- 
en was  at  stake.  So  out  into  the 
cold  went  little  Tom,  and  drag- 
ged his  heavy  limbs  that  weary 
two  miles.  The  chilly  wind  tore 
at  his  ragged  clothing  as  if  it 
had  a  special  spite  against  him, 
and  was  determined  to  undress 
him  entirely.  The  snow  fell  up- 
on his  cold,  thin  face,  and  found 
no  warmth  there  to  melt  it,  and 
every  icy  blast  pierced  his  chest 
like  a  knife,  for  Tom  had  taken 
a  very  bad  cold,  settling  upon 
his  lungs.  Having  delivered 
the  calico  and  woolen  yarn  into 
the  hands  of  Mrs.  Wingate,  he 
fell,  rather  than  sat,  into  a  chair 
by  the  kitchen  stove,  and  finally 
crept  up  the  attic  stairs,  and 
cowered  down  under  his  scanty 
bed  clothing. 

Happily,  Tom's  yarn  and 
cloth  came  just  in  time  to  pre- 
vent a  half-hour's  cessation  of 
labor  for  the  heathen.  Then 
fingers  flew.  Let  the  naked 
Ethiopians  rejoice.  What  though 
he  be  wretched  now,  lying  upon 
his  bed  of  palm  leaves,  and  pull- 
ing tropic  flowers  with  bare  hands  ?  Rejoice,  unhappy  brothers ;  for 


MRS.  WINGATE'S  CHARITY.  123 

warm  hearts  arc  beating  for  you,  bedquilts  are  being  pieced  for  you, 
woolen  mittens  are  being  knitted  by  tender,  womanly  fingers.  Their 
fingers  flew  and  their  tongues.  Many  pitying  words  and  desires  were 
bestowed  upon  the  foreign  sufferers.  But,  alas,  for  the  little  native 
heathen,  lying  uncared  for  and  alone,  fighting  for  every  breath  he  drew, 
"  naked,  athirst,  and  faint,"  in  the  cold  attic-room  above  them ! 

Congestion  Dr.  Dean  would  have  called  it  if  he  had  seen  Tom. 
But  he  did  not  see  him,  for  when  he  was  there  in  the  morning  to  visit 
Mabel,  the  boy  was  cowering  upon  his  bare  bed  in  the  attic,  too  glad  of 
the  rest  to  care  much  if  the  snow  was  sifting  down  through  the  broken 
windows,  and  making  quite  a  pile  at  the  bed  head. 

The  night  of  the  fair  was  a  beautiful,  cold,  star-lit  evening.  Mrs. 
Wingate  went  to  the  hall  where  it  was  to  be  held  early  in  the  morning, 
and  left  it  not  until  nearly  midnight — or,  that  is,  she  left  it  for  a  few 
moments  only.  Towards  sunset  she  went  home  with  the  Vice-President, 
who  lived  near,  long  enough  to  array  herself  in  a  gorgeous  dress  of 
orange  and  green  plaid  silk,  which  she  had  purchased  with  a  view  to 
the  overthrow  of  Dr.  Dean.  She  had,  with  a  further  design  to  ruin  his 
peace  of  mind,  purchased  a  head-dress  so  radiant  with  different  colors 
and  beauty,  that  she  was  confident  it  must  needs  bring  him  to  her  feet. 
In  fact,  all  the  long  summer  and  autumn,  Mrs.  Wingate  had  looked  for- 
ward to  the  scene  where  she  was  to  triumph  over  all  the  single  females 
of  Dean sville,  and  carry  off  its  greatest  prize  in  the  matrimonial  market. 
We  all  must  needs  have  some  locality  in  which  to  rear  our  castles,  and 
Mrs.  Wingate  had  erected  the  airy  structure  of  her  hopes  in  the  lighted 
and  brilliant  interior  of  Jefferson  Hall.  She  thought  when  he  saw  her 
stand  so  glorious  in  apparel,  so  elevated  in  rank  above  the  adjoining 
women,  surrounded  by  such  evidences  of  her  liberality  and  philanthropy, 
he  must,  if  his  heart  were  not  stone,  yield  to  their  combined  fascina- 
tions. 

But,  although  she  hurried  the  Vice-President  as  she  was  parting  hoi- 


124  MRS-  WINGATE'S  CHARITY. 

back  hair  and  looping  up  her  overskirt,  yearning  to  be  behind  her  table 
in  full  glory  when  he  arrived,  and  though  she  walked  back  so  fast  that 
she  was  nearly  breathless,  and  the  Vice-President  panted  for  breath, 
being  troubled  with  asthma,  Dr.  Dean  was  not  there.  One  —  two  — 
three — four  hours  passed,  the  fair  was  ended,  and  Dr.  Dean  had  not 
been  there  at  all.  Alas  !  for  the  western  castle,  it  is  in  ruins. 

But  where  was  Dr.  Dean,  he  who  had  never  been  known  to  absent 
himself  from  any  charitable  institution  or  meeting  whatever?  We  will 
tell  you. 

Mabel,  although  a  great  deal  better — almost  well,  in  fact — did  not 
attend  the  fair.  For  the  past  two  days,  ever  since  she  had  left  her 
room,  she  had  given  all  her  time  and  strength  to  poor  little  Tom,  and 
the  day  of  the  fair  he  was  much  worse.  But  he  was  very  patient.  All 
his  life  he  had  had  his  real  needs  too  much  neglected  to  be  fanciful  and 
hard  to  suit.  Everything  that  Mabel  did  for  him  was  just  right.  The 
food  she  prepared  for  him  "  was  good,  he  knew  it  was,"  although  he 
could  not  eat  it.  But  he  tried  to.  He  would  lift  his  little  weak  hands 
for  anything  she  brought  him,  and  smile  his  thanks  with  such  a  patient 
gratitude  that  Mabel's  heart  was  quite  wrung  to  behold  it. 

She  would  bring  him  some  dainty  prepared  by  herself,  and  say : 

"  This  is  good,  Tom  ;  don't  you  believe  it  is  ? " 

"Yes,  mam." 

"Will  you  try  to  eat  a  little  of  it?" 

"Yes,  mam." 

"Can't  you  eat  one  bit  of  it?" 

"No,  mam." 

"  Can't  you  think  of  anything  you  would  like  ? " 

"No,  mam." 

Not  once  did  this  answer  change,  till  the  pitifulness  of  it  and  the 
pathos  of  the  little  worn  face  and  his  quiet  patience  seemed  so  pitiful  to 
witness,  that  Mabel  would  have  been  almost  glad  had  he  shown  a  touch 


MItS.  WINGATE'S  CHARITY. 

of  petulance  and   impatience.     But  he  never  did,  and  he  grew  worse 
constantly.     The  morning  of  the  fair  he  was  so  much  worse  that  Mabel 

proposed  to  send  for 
Dr.  Dean ;  but  Mrs. 
Wingate  perempto- 
rily forbade  it.  "lie 
would  be  better  in  a 
day  or  two,"  she 
said.  Possibly  she 
did  not  want  Dr. 
Dean  to  see  what 
sort  of  a  room  she 
gave  as  a  habitation 


••'  -.  £ ': ' 


THE   LITTLE   SUFFERER. 


for  an  immortal  soul  —  not  nearly  so  good 
a  place  as  her  stable,  where  she  kept  her 
sleek  carriage  horses.  And  all  that  day  Mabel  watched  by  him,  with  a 
thick  shawl  around  her,  and  going  down  often  to  warm  herself  by  the  fire. 
She  had  brought  pillows  and  bed-quilts  from  her  own  room,  and  made 
him  as  comfortable  as  he  could  be  made  there.  But  poor  Tom  grew  de- 
lirious as  his  afternoon  fever  burned  up  more  fiercely  than  ever.  He  bab- 
bled of  many  things,  but  most  of  "Mrs.  Wingit's  work,  which  he  must  git 
up  to  do."  And  then  Mabel  would  have  to  hold  the  little  thin  form  in  the 
bed,  for  he  would  endeavor  to  arise,  as  he  would  speak  of  the  whippings 
he  would  receive  if  he  didn't  obey  her  hard  commands.  And  Mabel 


126  MRS-  WINGATE'S  CHARITY. 

would  soothe  him  into  calmness,  with  her  tender  hand  upon  his  hot 
forehead  and  her  loving  voice  in  his  ear.  But  when  his  fever  burned 
itself  out  and  left  him,  he  frightened  Mabel  with  his  deathly  look,  and 
she  called  the  Irish  girl,  who  was  a  kind-hearted  but  ignorant  creature. 
But  Mabel  thought  her  poor  companionship  was  better  than  none.  The 
girl  was  so  frightened  that  she  said  she  would  go  for  the  doctor  at 
once ;  and  Mabel  told  her  she  might  go  for  him  and  for  Mrs.  Wingate. 
As  the  girl  started  out  of  the  door  she  saw  a  boy  on  his  way  to  the  fair, 
and  she  sent  word  by  him  that  Tom  was  worse,  and  Mabel  wanted  her 
to  come  home.  But  Mrs.  Wingate  refused  to  come.  She  was  just  then 
on  her  way  home  with  Harriet  to  don  the  gorgeous  apparel  with  which 
to  vanquish  Dr.  Dean.  Could  she  give  up  the  scene  of  triumph  she  had 
pictured  to  herself  so  many  times  for  the  sake  of  a  poor  pauper  ?  No. 
She  refused  to  go.  Dr.  Dean  went,  however ;  and  with  his  first  look  at 
Tom's  face  he  knew  the  truth.  The  boy  was  dying ;  but  as  the  doctor, 
who  had  been  one  of  the  very  few  who  had  always  spoken  kindly  to 
him,  bent  over  his  bed,  Tom  looked  up  and  smiled,  and  seemed  to 
remember  some  of  those  kind  words ;  for  he  said  to  him  in  such  a  poor, 
weak  voice  that  they  both  had  to  bend  their  heads  very  low  to  hear 
him : 

"I  said  1  wished  I  was  a  hething,  and  you — "  Here  his  voice 
quite  failed  him,  and  he  stopped  a  minute ;  but  pretty  soon  he  went  on, 
"And  you  said  there  was  brighter  days  for  me." 

"  There  are,  Tom.  God  knows  I  believe  it ;  and  you  are  very  near 
them  now." 

"  You  said — you  said, — "  Again  he  paused  for  a  moment.  "You 
said  it  was  a  long  lane  that  never  turned,  and  I  guess — I'm  most  —  to 
the  endin'  of  it." 

"  Yes,  Tom ;  and  I  believe  a  kinder  friend  than  you  have  ever 
known  on  earth  is  waiting  to  lead  you  into  that  brighter  pathway  so 
near  you."  And  here  the  doctor's  voice  was  very  low  and  gentle. 


MRS.  WING  ATE1 S  CHARITY.  127 

"  Will  you  ask  that  Good  Friend  for  His  love,  for  His  love  to  go  with 
you,  Tom?  Do  you  know  the  prayer,  'Our  Father  who  art  in 
Heaven?'" 

"No;  nobody  ever  teached  me.  But  I  guess — "  Here  his  voice 
died  entirely  out ;  but,  as  he  brightened  up  a  moment  after,  he  tried 
again  to  finish  the  sentence — the  last  speech  he  ever  gave  to  a  gainsay- 
ing world,  that  had  thought  so  very  little  of  poor  Tom's  remarks : 

"  I  guess  He'll  know — that  I  never — had  nobody — to  tell  me — " 

The  sentence  was  never  finished  here  ;  but  I  trust  it  was  heard  and 
received  due  attention  from  Him,  in  whose  gracious  sight  a  sparrow 
does  not  fall  unnoticed. 

When  Mrs.  Wingate  returned  from  the  fair  for  the  welfare  of  the 
heathen,  Tom  was  not  there — only  the  poor  robe  he  had  cast  aside  for- 
ever. The  immortal  spirit,  that  had  been  intrusted  to  her  care,  had 
gone  to  carry  the  message  of  how  she  had  used  that  trust  to  the  throne 
of  God. 

But  Tom's  labor  is  ended  now,  and  he  sleeps  very  peacefully 
beneath  the  small  white  stone  Mabel  Dean  placed  above  his  grave. 

It  was  just  after  Mabel's  marriage,  which  took  place  about  two 
months  after  Tom's  death,  that  Mrs.  Wingate,  disgusted,  resigned  her 
position  as  President  of  the  Female  Dorcas  Society. 


FAITTI     WINSLOW. 


VERY-ONE  wondered  where  Faith  Window 
got  her  eyes.  Not  from  Pa  or  Ma  Winslow. 
He  had  small  orbs,  of  a  pale,  watery  blue, 
and  hers  were  round,  shining  spheres  of  black, 
very  like  a  doll's.  No,  not  from  either  of  these  did  Faith  inherit  those 
large,  beautiful  eyes.  I  fancy  some  ancestor  of  hers  —  no  matter  how 
many  centuries  back  —  had  a  wonderful  poet  or  artist  soul,  and  baffled, 
yearning,  went  down  to  the  grave  unsatisfied  with  life,  and  so  his 
soul,  not  resting,  looked  out  on  the  world  again  from  the  eyes  of 
Faith  Winslow. 

They  were  seeking  eyes,  —  eyes  that  were  always  asking  something, 
—  wonderful,  appealing  eyes.  Sweet  eyes,  seeking  for  something  beau- 
tiful. What  did  they  find  in  the  old  farm-house  to  satisfy  them  ? 

In  the  best  room  there  was  a  striped  rag  carpet,  six  yellow  flag- 
bottomed  chairs,  embellished  at  the  back  with  an  impossible  rose  with 
blue  petals,  such  as  never  haunted  a  sane  horticulturist's  wildest 
dreams.  A  table,  with  a  brown  linen  table-spread,  of  Ma  Winslow's 
own  weaving,  on  it,  on  which  was  a  small  dictionary,  an  almanac,  a 
Bible,  and  a  Methodist  hymn-book.  A  mantel,  with  two  shining  brass 
candlesticks,  separated  by  a  snuffer-tray.  Four  stiff,  green  paper  cur- 
9  (129) 


130  FAITH  WINSLOW. 

tains  at  the  windows.  And  on  the  spotless  walls  a  certificate,  framed, 
bearing  witness  to  her  parents'  lawful  marriage.  And  a  mourning 
piece,  —  a  woman  clasping  a  very  mature  child  to  her  elaborately- 
trimmed  breast,  and  both  shedding  very  large-sized  tears  on  a  monu- 
ment. That  was  all.  Then  there  was  the  spare  bed-room,  with  a 
marvelously  high  feather-bed  on  it.  A  kitchen,  with  a  bed-room 
adjoining  it,  where  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Winslow  nightly  slept  the  sleep  of 
the  just.  And  two  chambers  above,  in  one  of  which  Faith  dreamed 
her  wonderful  dreams ;  and  in  the  other,  John  Grey,  the  hired  boy, 
burned  his  nightly  candle  in  the  search  of  knowledge.  Only  a  farmer's 
sonr  hired  to  a  farmer,  but  you  would  find  on  the  little  stand  at  the 
head  of  his  bed  elementary  books  in  Greek  and  Latin  among  the  pile 
of  other  school-books.  The  .education  he  had  received  at  the  district 
school  had  only  fired  his  love  for,  and  determination  to  obtain,  an 
education.  And  the  flame  burned  silently,  and  grew  with  what  it 
fed  upon. 

It  was  a  lovely  evening  in  early  May,  and  Faith  and  John  Grey 
were  sitting  on  the  porch  amidst  the  budding  lilacs  and  sweet-briar 
roses.  She  is  cutting  carpet  rags,  but  her  fingers  are  rather  idle,  so 
her  mother  thinks,  looking  at  her  over  her  spectacles  from  the  window, 
where  she  sits  making  a  cheese  bandage. 

"  I  declare,  Faith,  when  do  you  think  you  will  ever  get  that  ball 
done  at  that  rate  ?  and  there  are  forty  pounds  to  cut  before  spinning 
comes  on.  Now,  when  I  was  your  age " 

And  then  followed  a  long  recital  of  the  days'  work  she  used  to 
turn  off — wonderful  successes  of  skeins  of  yarn,  and  yards  of  weaving. 

Faith's  eyes  were  bent  earnestly  on  her  mother's  face  as  she 
talked,  and  her  mother  thought  her  greatly  impressed  by  her  conver- 
sation. That  good  lady,  not  being  a  soul  linguist,  could  not  translate 
the  pathetic,  wistful  language  of  the  soft  eyes  lifted  to  hers.  Had 
she  understood  it,  she  would  have  read  Faith's  questioning  whether  life 


FAITH  WINSLOW. 

were  really  worth  having  that  held  nothing  but  this  endless  drudgery, 
this  treadmill-round  of  wearisome  toil. 

Her  mother  bustled  off  to  the  dairy-room  with  her  cheese  band- 
age, and  Faith  took  up  her  work  again  with  a  long  sigh. 

John  heard  it, —  indeed,  an  observant  person  could  hardly  be  in 
their  society  for  five  minutes  without  knowing  that  John  Grey  did  see 
and  hear  everything  relating  to  Faith  Winslow.  He  looked  up  quickly 
from  his  work, —  it  was  a  harness  he  was  mending  with  deft,  brown 
fingers. 

But  Faith  did  not  look  at  him.  Her  large  eyes  were  bent  upon 
the  West,  whose  glowing  sunset  light  was  being  fast  hidden  from  her 
by  the  towering  mountain  range  that  shut  in  the  valley.  What  was- 
in  that  great,  wonderful,  beautiful  world  that  lay  beyond  ?  How  nar- 
row and  barren  the  life  about  her  seemed  to  her  to-night! 

Must  her  whole  life  be  passed  in  farm  drudgery,  in  the  exercise 
of  mere  brute  strength  ?  Must  her  highest  aim  and  enjoyment  be 
the  doing  of  an  extra  hard  day's  work  of  spinning,  cutting  carpet  rags, 
or  piecing  calico  bed-quilts  ? 

She  looked  about  her,  at  the  little  farm-house  that  brightened  the 
valley.  Their  inmates  all  seemed  content,  —  happy.  Why  should  she 
be  so  different  from  them  all,  so  restless,  discontented  ?  Faith  was  not 
aware  of  it;  so  very  humble  was  she  and  self-distrustful,  she  did  not 
know  in  what  consisted  that  strange  barrier  —  felt,  but  scarcely  recog- 
nized, —  separating  her  so  entirely  from  those  about  her. 

%In  the  first  place  it  was  her  beautiful  nature,  and  then  she  had 
separated  herself  still  farther  from  her  surroundings  by  her  superior 
culture. 

An  aunt,  half-sister  to  her  mother,  the  child  of  a  later  and 
wealthier  marriage,  had  spent  one  summer  at  the  farm-house  when 
Faith  was  thirteen,  three  years  before  our  story  commences.  And 
to  Faith's  dreamy,  imaginative  mind  the  three  months  that  this  ele- 
gant, cultured  woman  was  in  her  home  was  Paradise. 


132  FAITH  WINSLOW. 

This  aunt  possessed  a  nature  kindred  to  Faith's,  and  she  saw 
with  delight  the  young  girl's  growing  desire  for  knowledge,  and  taught 
her  while  she  was  there,  leaving  her  books  to  study  and  read  when 
she  was  gone. 

Oh,  what  a  new  world  of  beauty  and  delight  she  caught  glimpses 
of  during  that  enchanted  season  !  But  the  aunt  had  seemed  to  pass 
utterly  from  her  life,  for  she  had  married  a  very  wealthy  man  two 
years  before,  and  was  living  in  the  south  of  France,  her  husband  being- 
ordered  there  by  his  physicians  for  the  benefit  of  his  health.  And 
Faith  thought  her  aunt  had  forgotten  her.  Poor  Faith,  sitting  on 
the  porch!  Lower  and  lower  the  sun  sank, —  deeper  and  darker  the 
shadows  of  the  green  old  mountain  stretched  toward  her.  Would 
she  ever  surmount  the  higher  mountains  that  separated  her  from  the 
unknown  world  of  beauty,  culture  ? 

Faith  did  not  note  the  clear,  grey  eyes  that  were  watching  her 
so  intently.  But  she  spoke  out,  with  another  deep  sigh : 

"  How  dark  it  seems  here,  John !  " 

"  Yes ;   the  mountain  shuts  out  the  sunset  quickly." 

"  If  I  were  a  man,  I  would  follow  that  light  outward.  I  wonder 
you  can  be  content  here,  John.  If  I  were  a  man,  I  would  never  stay 
here,  I  would " 

"  You  would  walk  through  the  mountain  ?  " 

John  said  this  in  a  light  tone,  but  with  rather  of  a  sad  heart, 
to  think  the  one  he  worshiped  so  entirely  seemed  so  willing  to  have 
him  leave  her.  A  desert  would  be  delightful  to  him,  if  Faith  Wins- 
low  was  there.  But  he  went  on,  simply : 

"  You  know  my  father  was  indebted  to  yours ;  and  your  father 
wanted  my  work,  so  I  came." 

"When  you  wanted  to  go  to  school  so,  —  it  is  too  bad,  John." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  John,  cheerfully ;  "  school  can  wait  for  awhile ;  I 
am  only  eighteen,  and  I  am  studying,  too,  all  the  time." 


FAITH  WINSLOW.  133 

John  did  not  make  himself  out  a  martyr.  He  thought  he  was 
simply  doing  his  duty.  That  was  a  very  strongly-marked  trait  in 
John  Grey's  nature  —  a  loyal  desire  to  do  the  first  and  nearest  duty 
that  presented  itself  to  him.  To  do  all  things  faithfully,  earnestly,  as 
in  the  sight  of  the  Lord.  He  was  not  a  believer  in  fate  at  all ;  he 
relied  upon  God  and  his  own  right  hand,  and  he  was  willing  to  toil 
valiantly. 

John,  too,  was  looking  now  at  the  great,  grim  giant  that  seemed 
to  delight  to  tower  up  and  hide  all  the  glory  of  the  western  sky,  and 
there  was  a  light  in  his  grey  eyes  that  made  his  earnest  face  handsome. 

"  One  step  at  a  time  will  take  one  over  the  mountain ;  I  shall 
find  a  way." 

"  I  know  you  will.  The  world  has  need  of  just  such  good,  patient 
workers  as  you  are,  John.  I  wish  I  were  half  as  good  as  you,  —  as 
contented  and  cheerful.'* 

John's  face  flushed. 

"  Oh,  it  is  different  with  you,  Faith.  It  never  seems  as  if  any- 
thing is  half  good  enough  for  you.  You  are  so  dainty,  so  different 
from  anyone  else." 

Poor  John,  his  face  was  growing  so  very  red,  and  his  fast-beating 
heart  made  the  words  so  very  difficult  to  speak.  But  at  that  moment 
was  heard  a  loud,  decided  knocking  at  the  front  door,  and  Faith  ran 
away  to  open  it. 

"  Could  you  kindly  direct  me  to  Farmer  Ford's  ? " 

Faith  answered  him,  looking  up  shyly  into  the  tender,  smiling, 
passionate  eyes.  For  they  were  eyes  that  could  put  on  every  soulful 
emotion  to  entrance  a  little  beauty  of  a  country  girl,  as  well  as  to 
beguile  a  royal  duchess.  And  in  fact  as  Clancy  March  looked  down 
into  those  large,  wonderful  eyes,  he  thought  he  had  never  in  his  life 
beheld  so  rare  and  perfect  a  type  of  beauty. 

He   was   told   that  Farmer   Ford    might    take  a  boarder   for    the 


134 


FAITH  WINSLOW. 


summer.  He  was  rather  out  of  health,  and  wanted  a  quiet  place 
where  he  could  have  plenty  of  quiet,  out-door  exercise  and  pure  air. 
Perhaps  he  could  obtain  board  here,  if  so  he  would  look  no  further. 


THE   INQUIRY. 


Faith  ushered  him  into  the  parlor.     Farmer  Winslow  was  called. 

That  good  old  gentleman  was  in  a  very  bad  humor.  Six  lengths 
of  fence  had  just  been  broken  down  "by  them  infernal  cattle  of 
Neighbor  Ford's." 


FAITH  WINSLOW.  135 

When  Faith  told  him  the  gentleman's  business,  he  said:  — 

"Til  be  shot  if  I  have  him  in  the  house  five  minutes." 

But  he  little  understood  the  fascinations  and  power  of  Clancy 
March.  In  half  an  hour  it  was  all  settled,  and  the  young  man  became 
an  inmate  of  the  old  brown  homestead. 

Oh,  those  long  summer  months,  Eden  hours  so  sweet  —  so  bitter 
sweet  to  the  tender,  impulsive  heart  of  Faith  Winslow !  All  she  had 
dreamed  of  in  her  ideal  world,  of  art,  culture,  beauty,  he  realized 
to  her.  What  poems  he  read  to  her  in  the  shady  old  porch ;  what 
sweet  love  songs  he  sang  to  her  in  the  twilight  shadows ;  what  more 
wondrous  idyls  of  love  and  tenderness  she  could  read  in  his  admiring 
glances. 

Did  Clancy  March  know  just  how  dear  he  was  becoming  to  her  ? 
Yes,  I  think  he  knew  it  fully.  He  was  one  who  delighted  in  his 
power  of  winning  love  and  admiration.  And  Faith  —  why  he  had 
never,  never  met,  in  all  his  going  to  and  fro  about  the  earth,  just  such 
a  sweet,  original  little  beauty  as  Faith  Winslow.  In  fact,  she  touched 
the  heart  of  Clancy  March  as  no  woman  had  ever  done  —  this  little 
rustic  maiden. 

He  thought  of  it  often  upon  his  pillow  in  the  spare  bed-room  of 
the  Winslow  farmhouse.  Not  in  the  night  watches.  No,  he  slept  well 
and  soundly.  But  just  after  he  would  lay  his  head  upon  his  pillow, 
after  spending  the  short,  beautiful  summer  evening  reading  to  her. 
With  those  wonderful  eyes  bent  with  a  woman's  appreciation  and  a 
child's  trust  and  innocence  upon  his  face. 

"  If  she  were  only  rich  now ;  but  he  couldn't  afford  to  throw  away 
his  future  for  the  sake  of  this  little  country  girl.  He  should  get  over 
this  fancy,  he  always  did.  There  was  that  Italian  girl  Beatrice;  lie 
had  fancied  himself  in  love  with  her  that  winter  in  Florence.  And 
then  there  was  Madame  Le  Noir,  that  young  French  widow,  and 
American  girls  dating  back  to  the  daughter  of  his  nurse.  Of  course, 


136  FAITH   WINbLOW. 

there  were  none  of  these  like  Faith ;  there  was  a  soul,  a  depth  to  her 
nature,  a  spirituality  to  her  loveliness,  that  none  of  these  had  possessed. 
But  then,  he  should  get  over  it." 

And  he  would  fall  asleep  so  quickly  after  settling  this  important 
fact  in  his  mind  that  he  had  really  no  time  to  think  whether  Faith 
would  "  get  over  it "  as  easily.  For  he  could  not  fail  to  see  how 
entirely  she  was  giving  up  her  heart  —  her  very  life,  into  his  hands. 
And  so  the  long,  sweet  summer  hours  passed  away,  and  it  was  the 
last  night  of  his  stay  at  the  old  farmhouse. 

Faith  was  sitting  on  the  low  parlor  doorstep,  he  leaning  against 
the  rough  pillar  that  supported  the  vine-shaded  portico,  looking  down 
upon  her. 

"  I  shall  miss  my  little  companion  very  much.  The  city  will 
seem  dull  and  empty  to  me  without  you,  Faith." 

She  looked  up  into  his  face. 

He  saw  it  all,  all  those  eyes  held ;  such  sorrow,  such  a  passionate, 
loving  reverence  for  him,  for  I  verily  believe  had  he  asked  her  at  that 
time  to  give  up  her  life  for  him,  she  would  have  lain  it  down  gladly. 
I  think  he  read  it  all,  but  he  only  said,  as  he  stepped  down  and  laid 
his  hand  lightly  on  her  forehead : 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  all  this  brain  when  I  am  gone  ?" 

She  did  not  answer  him,  for  she  could  not.  She  turned  her  head, 
but  he  could  see  tears  drop  silently  down  upon  her  clasped  hands. 

He  saw  them,  and  they  touched  his  heart  as  I  think  it  had  never 
been  touched  in  his  whole  life  before.  But  he  had  sufficient  manliness 
not  to  show  that  he  noticed  them,  and  he  went  on  speaking  rapidly : 

"  I  wish  I  dare  tell  you,  Faith,  how  bitter  this  parting  is  to  me. 
If  it  were  in  my  power,  I  would  never  leave  my  little  girl  here,  if  she 
would  go  with  me.  But  I  am  not  worthy  of  you.  Some  better  man 
than  I  am  will  win  your  love,  and  then  you  will  forget  me,  and  I,  far 
away  from  you,  shall  try  to  forget  you  and  cannot." 


FAITH  WINSLOW.  137 

Words  said  only  to  free  himself  from  rather  an  embarrassing 
position,  but  which  were  to  prove  truer  than  he  thought.  For,  in  the 
years  that  came  after,  how  often  did  those  beautiful  eyes  rise  before 
him,  with  all  the  wondrous  meaning  they  held.  When  lie  was  deceived 
in  what  he  most  trusted,  when  he  lost  faith  in  all  humanity,  and 
thought  there  was  no  such  thing  as  disinterested  love  upon  earth, 
then  he  thought  of  the  boundless  faith  in  him  those  sweet  eyes 
expressed ;  then  he  thought  of  the  soul  of  love,  faithful,  almost 
worshipful  devotion,  that  he  left  there  in  the  porch  of  the  old 
homestead.  Yes,  left.  For  even  as  he  looked  down  upon  Faith, 
with  his  selfish,  worldly  heart  beating  faster  than  it  ever  had  before, 
he  thought : 

"  I  can  never  sacrifice  my  future  for  the  sake  of  a  little  country 
girl.  There  is  Miss  Wallingford  with  her  hundred  thousand.  To  be 
sure  she  was  rather  faded,  and  her  eyes  were  very  pale  and  colorless, 
but  her  diamonds  had  expression  and  sparkle.  No,  he  couldn't 
sacrifice  his  future." 

"  Faith,"  and  he  turned  to  the  still,  white  little  figure  at  his  side, 
"  I  want  you  to  keep  '  Elaine,'  that  little  illustrated  volume,  you  know, 
that  you  fancied  so.  I  will  leave  it  on  the  table  of  my  room,  for  we 
shall  not  meet  in  the  morning,  I  leave  so  early.  I  want  you  to  keep  it 
always,  for  my  sake.  Do  you  remember  that  little  song  in  it  ?  They 
seem  to  me  the  saddest,  truest  words  in  the  whole  world." 

And  then,  looking  down  upon  the  fair,  pale  face,  he  repeated, 
and  he  felt  them  deeply  enough  to  add  a  passion  and  tenderness  of 
his  own  to  the  mournful  sweetness  of  the  song: 

"Sweet  is  true  love,  though  given  in  vain,  in  vain, 
And  sweet  is  death,  who  puts  an  end  to  pain; 
I  know  not  which  is  sweeter  —  no,  not  I. 

"Love,  art  thou  sweet?  then  bitter  death  must  be. 
Love,  art  thou  bitter  ?  welcome  death  to  me. 
Oh,  love,  if  death  be  sweeter,  let  me  die. 


138  FAITH  WINS  LOW. 

' '  Sweet  love,  that  seems  not  made  to  fade  away. 
Sweet  death,  that  seems  to  make  us  loveless  clay; 
I  know  not  which  is  sweeter  —  no,  not  I." 

"  Do  you  remember  them,  Faith  ?  I  read  them  to  you  that  day 
in  the  boat." 

"  Yes,  I  remember  them.     Good-bye,  Mr.  March  ! " 

She  had  risen,  and  stood  pale  as  death,  but  calm  and  quiet  as 
she  had  never  been  in  all  her  past — the  perfect,  pathetic  calm  of 
despair. 

He  took  the  hand  she  held  out  in  both  his  own,  and  then  he 
stooped  down. 

"  We  are  such  good  friends,  you  might  let  me  kiss  you  once  —  for 
the  first  and  last  time,  Faith." 

But  she  drew  her  face  away  with  a  gesture  almost  of  abhorrence. 

"Stay  one  moment,  Faith,  I  want  to  tell  you " 

But  she  was  gone  through  the  hall,  the  kitchen ;  he  heard  her 
footsteps ;  then  he  heard  the  chamber  door  shut,  and  he  was  indeed 
alone,  save  for  a  memory  that  would  always  go  with  him  where  he 
went. 

Blinded,  dizzy,  stumbling,  Faith  started  to  climb  the  stairs.  She 
was  not  given  to  fainting,  but  after  shutting  the  chamber  door,  and 
thinking  how  very  steep  and  straight  the  staircase  was,  she  remembered 
nothing  further  till  she  found  herself  on  the  lounge  in  her  own  room, 
and  John  Grey  bending  over  her. 

"I  thought  I  wouldn't  call  your  mother,  Faith.  I  was  afraid  it 
would  frighten  her.  You  are  tired  out ;  you  have  worked  too  hard, 
Faith." 

If  Faith  had  looked  up  into  John  Grey's  face,  she  might  have 
read  the  true  reason  why  he  had  not  called  her  mother ;  why  he  had 
shielded  her  from  all  troublesome  notice  and  inquiries.  I  am  afraid 
that  John  —  good  Christian  youth  as  he  was  —  was  cursing  Clancy 


FAITH  WINSLOW. 


189 


March  for  a  villain  in  his  inmost  heart.     For  he  well  knew  what  it 
was  that  was  tiring  Faith.     But  Faith  did  not  look  up;  she  only  said, 


"Yes,  I  am  tired,  John  —  tired  out." 

"Well,  you  shall  rest  now;  I  can  help  your  mother.     I  can  work 
in-doors  as  well  as  out,  you  know." 


"YES,  I   AM   TIRED,  JOHN." 

"  Yes,  I  know  just  how  good  you  are,  John." 

She  raised  herself  wearily  from  the  lounge.  And  John  Grey, 
suddenly  recollecting  that  he  was  in  Faith's  room,  gave  a  revon-nt. 
awe-struck  look  about  him,  and  went  softly  out.  He  paused,  however, 
at  the  door. 

"There  isn't  anything  I  can  do  for  you,  Faith?" 


140  FAITH  WINSLOW. 

"  Xo,  John  ;  nothing." 

What  of  the  days  that  passed  after  Clancy  March  had  left  the  old 
homestead  ?  At  first  she  thought  the  world  had  come  to  an  end. 
Then  there  were  the  long  days  and  nights  of  dull,  dreary  pain,  and 
longing,  and  despair.  And  then  came  a  strength  and  a  patience 
wrought  out  of  suffering. 

Clancy  March  did  not  harm  Faith.  Indeed,  I  am  fully  persuaded 
that  no  power  upon  earth  can  harm  people  unless  it  is  their  own 
ill-doing.  At  this  time  —  the  most  eventful  in  her  life  —  this  aunt  we 
have  spoken  of,  who  was  now  a  childless  widow,  offered  to  send  Faith 
away  to  school.  One  year  ago  she  might  have  refused ;  so  strong  are 
the  chains  of  habit  and  blind  contact ;  the  coarse  food  of  Egypt  might 
have  satisfied  her  hunger  sufficiently  to  keep  her  from  the  unknown 
wilderness.  But  now  she  hailed  it  —  welcomed  it  eagerly.  And  for 
the  next  three  years  Faith  Winslow  attended  the  best  schools  in  the 
country. 

Clancy  March  had  followed  his  heiress  to  Switzerland,  where  she 
was  journeying  with  a  gay  party ;  while  John  Grey,  in  a  Western 
village,  was  working  hard  —  studying  hard  —  as  became  a  penniless 
young  lawyer. 

It  was  on  an  ocean  steamer  that  Faith  Winslow  and  Clancy  March 
met  again.  He  had  not  married  his  heiress.  Something — some  lover's 
quarrel  —  had  separated  them  shortly  before  the  time  appointed  for 
their  bridal,  and  he  seemed  not  sorry  to  be  rid  of  the  affair,  so  his 
friends  thought.  Just  about  this  time  a  rich  bachelor  uncle  had  died 
and  left  Clancy  his  heir.  So  he  had  taken  life  easily,  or  at  least  had 
made  strenuous  efforts  to  do  so  —  wandering  about  wherever  inclination 
led  him. 

But  wherever  he  went  —  amid  Alpine  snows  or  Southern  roses  — 
one  memory  went  with  him ;  and,  at  last,  it  was  that  very  memory 
that  led  him  on  the  Scotia,  homeward-bound.  One  day — it  was  the 


FAITH  WIN  SLOW. 

third  day  out,  but  the  first  upon  deck,  for  he  had  been  a  victim  to 
that  most  miserable  affliction,  sea-sickness  —  Clancy  March  was  leaning 
upon  the  railing,  looking  down  into  the  ocean  depths,  and  thinking. 

"Pshaw!  what  a  fool  I  am!"  he  said,  at  last,  emphatically  to 
himself.  "  No  doubt  she  is  married  years  ago ;  and  if  she  is  not, 
those  eight  years  of  rustic  surroundings  and  seclusion  on  her  part- 
and  of  culture  and  the  best  society  on  mine  —  have  separated  us  more 
widely  than  ever.  And  yet,  here  I  am,  giving  up  all  the  ease  and 
beauty  of  a  life  abroad,  just  for  the  chance  of  seeing  those  wonderful 
eyes  again."  And  then  a  very  keen  memory  of  just  how  those  sweet 
eyes  looked  as  he  last  beheld  them,  swept  over  him.  "  Poor  little 
Faith."  Unconsciously  to  himself  these  last  words  were  spoken  aloud. 

And  a  lady  just  passing,  on  the  captain's  arm,  looked  full  into 
his  face,  for  one  brief  moment,  and  then  passed  on.  She  did  not 
recognize  him  evidently,  but  he  knew  her  at  once. 

There  could  never  be  two  pair  of  such  eyes  in  the  whole  world 
—  glowing,  tender,  fathomless.  Those  were  the  eyes  that  he  had 
dreamed  of  by  night  and  by  day. 

As  the  captain  returned  from  the  ladies'  cabin,  whither  he  had 
escorted  his  passenger,  Clancy  sought  him  —  he  was  an  old  friend  of 
his. 

"  Who  was  that  lady  with  you  a  moment  since  ? " 

"That!  oh,  that  was  Miss  Winslow,  the  beauty,  the  heiress. 
Where  had  he  been  not  to  have  heard  of  her?  She  had  been  the 
belle  —  the  rage — at  Florence,  Rome,  Paris,  for  the  past  year." 

"Mr.  March  had  been  in  Germany  for  the  past  year.  Where  was 
the  lady's  home?" 

"  In  Washington ;  but  the  aunt  who  had  adopted  her,  and  left  her 
her  heiress,  had  died  there,  and  she  had  been  abroad  with  an  old  friend 
of  her  aunt's.  Did  he  want  to  be  presented  ? " 

"  Yes,  that  evenin<r." 


142  FAITH  WINSLOW. 

Captain  Duncan  was  a  good-natured  man,  exceedingly  happy  in 
his  domestic  relations,  and  he  had  a  strong  penchant  for  making 
matches,  and  before  he  left  Clancy  he  volunteered  the  information 
that  Miss  Winslow  had  refused  a  count,  a  marquis,  and  no  end  of 
foreign  nobles;  and  it  was  supposed  that  she  was  keeping  her  heart 
and  her  fortune  for  some  American.  He  ended  with  the  hint  that, 
perhaps,  possibly  Mr.  March  might  turn  out  to  be  the  fortunate  indi- 
vidual. 

"  Mr.  Marcli  could  not  be  bold  enough  to  entertain  such  hopes." 
This  to  the  captain. 

But  I  think,  for  many  and  many  a  long  day,  life  had  not  seemed 
so  bright  and  fair  to  Clancy  March  as  it  did  when  Captain  Duncan 
moved  away,  and  left  him  alone  with  his  reverie.  Had  she,  indeed, 
been  faithful  all  these  years  to  that  old  love  ?  The  more  he  thought 
of  it  the  more  probable  it  seemed.  He  had  boundless  faith  in  his 
own  charms  and  fascinations.  If  it  were,  indeed,  so,  she  should  be 
rewarded  now  for  her  long  and  patient  waiting.  Fate  had  thrown 
them  together  for  that  express  purpose,  it  would  seem.  He  was  a 
devout  believer  in  Fate  —  most  men  of  his  class  are. 

When  the  good-natured  captain,  with  much  imjiressment,  introduced 
his  two  most  wealthy  and  distinguished  passengers,  the  lady  put  out 
her  hand,  calmly,  and  said : 

"An  introduction  is  unnecessary;  Mr.  March  and  I  are  old 
acquaintances." 

"Then  you  remembered  me,  Faith.  Miss  Winslow,  I  knew  you 
at  once." 

"  Your  countenance  looked  familiar  to  me  this  afternoon  upon 
deck,  and  as  soon  as  Captain  Duncan  called  your  name  I  remembered 
you  at  once." 

He  was  rather  flushed  and  ill  at  ease  for  the  first  few  minutes, 
but  she  was  perfectly  cool  and  unembarrassed.  And,  oh,  how  beautiful 


FAITH  W1NSLOW.  143 

—  beautiful  she  was!     All  the  possibilities  of  promise  and  loveliness 
that  he  saw  in  the  bud  eight  years  before  had   blossomed,  and   the 
rare  beauty  of  the  perfect  flower  was  glorious  beyond  anything  he  had 
ever  dreamed. 

It  was  rather  of  a  long  voyage,  for  the  weather  was  unfavorable, 
but  Clancy  March  blessed  each  detaining  breeze ;  hailed  it  as  an 
angel  of  mercy. 

Ah,  those  beautiful  seeking  eyes,  they  had  looked  upon  so  much 
beauty,  grandeur!  Her  life  had  been  so  full  and  complete.  You 
could  see  by  them  that  "her  royal  soul  lived  royally." 

But  with  all  her  beauty  and  accomplishments,  her  wide  and 
varied  culture,  she  had  retained  the  unaffected  frankness  of  a  child. 
The  very  soul  of  truth  and  innocence  still  looked  out  of  those  eyes 

—  those  sweet  eyes  —  that  held  him  with  such  a  spell. 

Yes,  Clancy  March  was  in  deadly  earnest  now.  He  loved  her, 
loved  her  so,  that  to  do  him  justice,  if  she  had  lost  every  penny  of 
her  fortune,  it  would  have  made  no  difference  to  him ;  he  would 
have  married  her  all  the  same,  as  he  was  going  to,  now.  Yes,  he 
was  fully  determined  that  he  would  make  her  his  wife ;  his  mind  was 
fully  settled  upon  that  point. 

But  her  manner  sometimes  puzzled  him.  Always  ready  to  con- 
verse with  him  about  books,  authors,  and  nature ;  ready  always  to 
listen  to  any  new  thought  he  brought  her  from  any  new  or  old  writer 

—  ready  to   welcome   it  with   her   quick   appreciation;   ready  to  walk 
with  him  upon  the  sunlit  or  starlit  deck ;  to  sing  with  him  his  favorite 
songs  —  still,  at  the  end  of  their  voyage  he  somehow  seemed  to  come 
no    nearer   to   her   than   lie  was   the   first  day.     She  seemed  to  meet 
him  with  calm,  unaffected  friendliness,  no  more.     But  those  who  are 
very  much   in    love    are    rarely  wise,  and    never   patient.      And   then 
such  firm  hopes  did  he  build  upon  the  old  love!     So  one   evening  — 
it  was   their  last   evening   on   the  Scotia,  for   they  expected  to  reach 


144 


FAITH  W1NSLOW. 


home  the  next  day —  he  purposely  brought  her  to  sing  that  song  he 
had  repeated  to  her  on  the  porch  of  the  old  homestead  :  — 
"Sweet  is  true  love,  though  given  in  vain,  in  vain." 

If  he  had  expected  the  song  would  cause  her  to  display  any  emo- 
tion, he  was  mistaken ;  she  sang 
it  through  in  her  sweet,  clear  voice, 
with  no  more  expression  than  the 
words  demanded.  But  as  she  fin- 
ished the  last  line  they  were  alone, 
for  false  news  of  land  in  sight 
had  drawn  all  the  passengers  on 
deck.  He  bent  over  her,  and  said, 
passionately :  — 

"Faith!  Faith!    do  you  know 
how   I   love  you  ?     Do   you  know 
that    I    have    waited   for    you   all 
these     long    years?      1 
could  not  love  any  one 
else;    your   sweet    eyes 
rose    between    me    and 
any  other  woman's  face. 

"  Then  you  have 
tried  to  love  others,  it 
seems." 

"Faith,  don't  speak 
to  me  in  that  tone,  un- 
less you  wish  to  drive  me   mad.     Have  you  no  pity?     You  loved  me 
once,  Faith." 

If  he  had  not  been  so  terribly  excited  I  hardly  think  he  would 
have  said  that,  however  strong  were  the  hopes  he  had  built  upon  it. 
But  she  looked  up  at  him,  full  in  the  face,  with  her  true,  earnest  eyes : — 


THE    OLD   SONG. 


FAITH  WINSLOW.  145 

"  Yes  ;  when  you  left  me,  my  heart  —  my  rash,  undisciplined  heart 
—  was  almost  breaking." 

"  You  can  learn  to  love  me  again  ?  Tell  me !  —  don't  break  my 
heart  by  saying  '  No ! ' ' 

He  was  in  earnest,  terribly  in  earnest ;  his  face  was  white  to  his 
lips  with  his  emotion.  But  the  delicate  rose-hue  on  her  cheeks  neither 
paled  nor  deepened,  and  there  was  a  look  in  her  eyes  as  they  met 
his  which  he  could  -not  really  translate. 

Ah,  how  well  he  could  remember  when  his  lightest  glance  could 
bring  up  a  flood  of  tell-tale  crimson  to  the  fair  cheek,  and  cause  the 
white  lids  to  droop  over  those  beautiful  eyes !  Her  manner  puzzled 
him  and  discouraged  him.  He  was  fearful  what  her  answer  might 
be,  in  that  particular  mood  of  hers.  . 

"Mr.  March,"  she  commenced. 

But  he  checked  her  next  words  by  saying,  hastily :  — 

"  Don't  answer  me  now,  Faith.  In  one  month  I  shall  be  in 
Washington,  and  then  I  will  come  for  your  answer." 

I  think  he  was  confident  that  a  further  study  of  his  perfections 
must  needs  insure  his  success.  Whether  Faith  had  a  desire  to  answer 
him  then  and  there  or  not,  it  was  rendered  impossible  by  the  pas- 
sengers re-entering  the  cabin,  and  one  of  her  gentleman  admirers  com- 
ing up  and  begging  her  for  a  song.  And  from  that  time  she  had  no 
further  opportunity  of  speaking  to  Mr.  March  alone.  They  reached 
home  the  next  day. 

It  was  just  one  month  from  that  day  that  Clancy  March  reached 
Washington.  As  he  hurried  through  the  streets  to  his  hotel  he 
almost  ran  against  a  gentleman  who  was  conversing  with  another  at 
a  street  corner.  He  replied  good-humored ly  to  Clancy's  apology,  and 
as  he  did  so,  Clancy  thought  there  was  something  strangely  familiar 
in  the  clear  grey  eye  and  the  handsome,  determined  profile.  The 
other  gentleman  turned,  and,  as  he  saw  Clancy,  he  seized  his  hand 
10 


146  FAITH  WINSLOW. 

with  extravagant  demonstrations  of  delight.  It  was  an  old  friend  of 
his,  and  a  traveling  companion  for  months.  The  tall  stranger  bowed 
slightly,  and  walked  away. 

"  Who  is  that  man  ?  "  asked  Clancy,  looking  after  him. 

"Why  didn't  I  introduce  you?"  asked  his  friend,  regretfully. 

"That  is  Grey,  the  new  Senator  from .  One  of  our  rising  men  — 

worked  his  own  way  up  —  rose  from  the  ranks,  as  soldiers  say. 
Deuced  lucky  fellow,  too !  Was  married  last  week  to  the  prettiest  girl 
in  Washington — an  heiress,  too!  though  Grey  is  not  the  sort  of  a 
fellow  to  care  for  that.  But  tell  me  about  yourself,  old  felloAv — did 
you  drop  down  out  of  the  clouds,  or  how  did  you  get  here  ? " 

Clancy  March  could  not  disengage  himself  from  his  enthusiastic 
friend  at  once,  but  that  evening  he  presented  himself  at  the  stately 

mansion,  the  home  of  Faith  Winslow.     The  room  he  was  shown  into 

i 

was  one  of  an  elegant  suite  of  rooms,  and  down  the  long  vista,  light- 
glorified,  flower-perfumed  Clancy  saw  Faith  herself  coming  to  meet 
him.  She  was  evidently  dressed  for  some  reception  or  party.  Clancy 
March  had  thought  her  peerlessly  beautiful  in  her  simple  traveling  attire 
on  the  Scotia;  but  now  he  could  find  no  words  in  his  mind  fit  to 
picture  her  wondrous  loveliness  with  the  waves  of  white  satin  and 
fleecy  lace  falling  about  her  tall,  graceful  figure ;  diamonds  shining 
on  her  white,  perfectly-moulded  neck  and  arms,  and  gleaming  in  her 
dark  tresses.  And  those  eyes  —  those  rare,  wondrous  eyes  —  as  she 
advanced  and  held  out  her  hand  to  him,  their  sweet  light  so  bewil- 
dered him,  maddened  him,  that  he  uttered  no  commonplaces  of  greet- 
ing, but,  as  he  took  that  delicate,  jeweled  hand  he  said,  pleadingly:  — 

"  Faith !  Faith !  I  have  come  for  my  answer." 

His  back  was  to  the  door,  and   the  velvet   carpet   smothered  the 
sound    of   another    approaching   footstep.      But   Faith   heard    it,    and, 
with  the  rose-tint  deepening  in  her  cheek,  she    drew    her   hand  from  . 
that  of  Clancy  March,  and  went  to  the  side  of  the  new-comer. 


FAITH  WIN  SLOW. 


147 


It  was  the  tall,  handsome  Senator,  Clancy  had  met  that  afternoon. 
Fnilh  looked  up  in  his  face  trustingly,  lovingly  :  — 

"  John,  tell  Mr.  March  why  I  cannot  be  his  wife." 

John  Grey  drew  her  hand  through  his  arm,  very  tenderly,  but  no 
more  lovingly  or  respectfully  than  he  would  have  done  years  before 
at  the  old  homestead :  — 

"  She  will  be  obliged  to  decline  your  offer,  because  she  is  my 
wife  — Mrs.  Grey." 


HE  is  COMING!  " 


CROWDED  party  at  Newport !  A  deep  bay- 
window  in  the  library,  where  the  emerald  cur- 
tains swept  down  to  the  mossy  carpet,  and  we 
were  as  much  alone  as  if  we  were  in  the 
green  depths  of  a  forest. 

"Am  I  so  unreasonable,  then?"  said  Murray  Hammond,  looking 
down  upon  me  with  a  queer  blending  of  tenderness  and  reproach  in  his 
clear  eyes. 

"Yes,  you  are  unreasonable,  unjust,  manlike,"  I  repeated,  with  a 
deeper  emphasis  on  each  word. 

"  Because  I  remind  you  of  your  promise  to  me  and  speak  of  its 
fulfillment,  I  am  unreasonable,  am  I?" 
"  I  never  made  any  promise." 
u  I  understood  it  as  such." 

"  You  don't  want  any  other  man  to  speak  to  me,  Murray  Ham- 
mond." 

"I  wonder  who  is  unreasonable  now?"  he  asked,  keeping  his  good 
humor,  in  a  way  that  was  very  provoking  to  an  angry  woman. 
"  Because  I  warn  you  against  Col.  Harding,  and  tell  you  that  it  is  very 

(149) 


150  TRUE   UNTO  DEATH. 

disagreeable  to  me  to  see  you  dancing  with  a  man  who  isn't  fit  to  be  in 
any  decent  woman's  presence — '" 

"  You  don't  like  me  to  speak  to   Mr.  Churchill  either,  do  you  ? " 

"I  have  never  said  so." 

"  You  could  find  nothing  to  say  to  his  discredit.  He  has  every 
qualification  to  make  a  woman  happy." 

"  As  I  spoke  I  calmly  picked  the  petals  of  a  white  rose  from  my 
bouquet,  and  they  showered  down  upon  my  pink  satin  dress  like  extra 
large  snow-flakes. 

u  Every  qualification  except  the  trifling  ones  of  heart  and  brains," 
answered  Murray. 

"  He  is  worth  ten  hundred  thousand,"  said  I,  purposely  spreading 
out  the  sum,  instead  of  saying  a  million,  thinking  it  would  sound 
larger. 

"  And  I  am  worth  scarcely  ten  thousand." 

"  And  he  admires  me  very  much  ;  so  Aunt  Isabelle  says."  Another 
shower  of  snow-flakes,  this  time  pink,  from  the  heart  of  a  moss-rose. 
"  She  says  this  romantic  idea  of  love  is  all  nonsense." 

"I  wish  your  Aunt  Isabella  were — "  His  tone  suddenly  changed. 
"Do  you  know,  Margaret,"  he  said,  "that  it  is  the  knowledge  that  you 
have  always  had  such  an  influence  as  hers  at  home  that  makes  me 
wonder  how  you  can  be  so  noble,  have  so  few  faults  — 

"  So  few  faults  !  0  Murray  !  "  My  lips,  that  I  had  tried  to  keep 
proudly  curved,  grew  tremulous.  We  were  very  near  a  reconciliation. 
I  did  not  rebel  when  the  hand  that  had  wrought  such  destruction  to 
my  flowers  was  gently,  but  closely  imprisoned,  to  keep  it  from  further 
mischief. 

"  And  yet,  my  darling,  it  makes  me  tremble  for  your  future.  My 
little  girl  is  so  impulsive,  so  easily  influenced  by  those  she  loves.  It 
is  that  influence  I  fear  for  her." 

"  Hush  !     What  a  sweet  voice !  "  I  cried.     Just  across  the  piazza 


TRUE   UNTO  DEATH.  151 

was  the  music-room,  and  the  low  French  window,  near  which  the  piano 
was  standing,  was  open,  and  the  words  came  to  us  distinctly,  sung  by 
a  woman's  voice,  full  of  power  and  tenderness. 

Clasp  your  arms  round  her  neck  to-night, 

Little  Nell! 

Arm  so  delicate,  soft,  and  white, 
And  yet  so  strong  in  love's  strange  might; 
Clasp  them  around  the  kneeling  form, 
Fold  them  tenderly,  close,  and  warm, 

And  who  can  tell 

But  such  slight  links  may  draw  her  hack, 
Away  from  the  fatal,  fatal  track? 

Who  can  tell,  little  Nell? 

Press  your  lips  to  her  lips  of  snow, 

Little  Nell! 

O  baby  heart!  may  you  never  know 
The  anguish  that  makes  them  quiver  so; 
But  now,  in  her  weakness  and  mortal  pain, 
Let  your  kisses  fall  like  dewy  rain; 

And  who  can  tell, 

But  your  innocent  love,  your  childish  kiss 
May  lure  her  back  from  the  dread  abyss? 

Who  can  tell,  little  Nell? 

Lay  your  cheek  on  her  aching  breast, 

Little  Nell! 

To  you  'tis  a  refuge  of  holy  rest; 
But  a  dying  bird  never  drooped  its  crest 
With  a  deadlier  pain  in  its  wounded  heart. 
Ah!  love's  sweet  links  may  be  torn  apart, 

Little  Nell! 

The  altar  may  flame  with  gems  and  gold, 
And  splendor  be  bought,  and  peace  be  sold, 

But  is  it  well,  little  Nell? 


152  TRUE   UNTO  DEATH. 

Veil  her  face  with  tresses  bright, 

Little  Nell! 

Hide  that  vision  out  of  her  sight, 
Those  dark,  dark  eyes,  with  their  tender  light; 
Uplift  your  pure  face.     Can  it  be 
She  will  bid  farewell  to  heaven  and  thee, 

Little  Nell? 

Your  mute  lips  plead  with  eloquent  power, 
Her  tears  fall  like  a  tropic  shower — 

It  is  well,  little  Nell ! 

Close  your  blue  eyes  now  in  sleep, 

Little  Nell! 

Her  angel  smiles  to  see  her  weep. 
At  morn  a  ship  will  cleave  the  deep, 
And  one  alone  will  be  borne  away, 
And  one  will  clasp  thee  close,  and  pray, 

O  little  Nell! 

Never!    Never,  beneath  the  sun, 
Will  you  dream  what  you  this  night  have  done  — 

Done  so  well,  little  Nell! 

Long  before  the  song  was  ended  my  tears  were  falling;  but 
Murray  should  not  see  them,  I  said  to  myself.  I  turned  my  head 
away,  and  drew  my  hand  from  his  clasp. 

"  Do  you  not  see,  Margaret,  that  Heaven  sent  that  song  ?  Sent 
it  to  prove  to  you  that  hearts  cannot  be  tortured  and  sold  without 
paying  a  penalty  of  woe  and  guilt." 

I  purposely  mistook  his  meaning,  and  said : 

"  Do  you  dare  to  think  I  could  ever  be  tempted  to  do  wrong  ? " 

"  No.  God  knows  I  believe  you  to  be  innocent  as  a  child.  You 
always  seem  just  like  a  child  to  me.  I  am  only  afraid  they  will  influ- 
ence you  at  home,  make  your  life  wretched,  my  darling." 

There  was  infinite  love  and  pleading  in  his  tone,  but  I  dared  not 
yield  to  its  influence. 


TRUE    UXTO 


153 


"You  arc  very  compliment- 
ary, Hammond.  You  seem  to 
have  boundless  faith  in  my 
strength  of  mind." 

The  cool,  sarcastic  tone 
touched  him,  I  saw;  for  the 
color  left  his  face,  and  his  lips, 
which  could  be  as  tender  as  a 
woman's,  put  on  the  firm,  reso- 
lute expression  they  could  as- 
sume upon  occasion. 

"  It  is  time,  Margaret,"  he 
said,  sternly,  "  that  you  and  I 
come  to  a  full  and  clear  under- 
standing, and,  if  you  have  not 
made  any  promises,  that  you 
should  make  them.  I  love  you 
better  than  anything  in  the 
world,  better  than  all  the  world; 
and  you  love  me,  that  I  know, 
for  you  have  told  me  so ;  and, 
if  you  have  not,  I  have  read  it 
in  your  eyes  a  thousand  times ; 
and  that  knowledge  has  made 
me  very  patient  with  you.  But 
there  is  a  limit  to  all  human 
endurance  ;  and  after  this  night 
I  shall  never  say  a  word  to  you 
to  influence  you  either  way. 
You  must  choose  for  yourself, 
whether  a  costly  palace,  or  a 


I  , 


154  TRUE   UNTO  DEATH. 

humbler  home  and  a  true,  honest  love  is  the  most  precious  to  you, 
and  you  must  choose  soon,  too." 

His  arms  were  folded  now,  and  he  looked  down  upon  me  with  a 
look  of  sternness  and  determination  in  his  blue  eyes  that  I  had  never 
seen  there  before. 

"Must!  my  lord  Hammond — " 

But  I  had  no  time  to  finish  the  angry  sentence,  for  the  curtain 
was  parted  suddenly,  and  my  sister  stood  before  us. 

"  I  have  been  looking  for  you  everywhere,  Maggie,"  she  said. 
"  Aunt  Isabelle  wants  to  go  home." 

I  lay  awake  half  the  night,  but  I  was  up  betimes,  and  in  the 
breakfast-room. 

But  my  Aunt  Isabelle  had  quick  eyes. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Margaret  ? "  she  said.  "  Have  you  a  head- 
ache? You  look  ill." 

"  She  quarreled  with  my  lord  Hammond  last  night,  and  don't  feel 
an  appetite,"  said  Dorothy,  breaking  her  egg.  "  I  saw  her  look  at  him 
like  a  female  iceberg  as  we  came  away." 

"  It  is  a  very  good  thing  if  Maggie  has  quarreled  with  Mr.  Ham- 
mond," said  Aunt  Isabelle,  approvingly.  "  I  am  glad  that  my  lessons, 
my  advice,  rather,  is  taking  effect  at  last." 

"  Of  course  it  is  a  good  thing,",  said  Dot,  "  when  Mr.  Hammond 
has  only  his  profession  and  a  little  beggarly  amount  that  his  mother 
left  him,  and  Mr.  Churchill  is  worth  a  million.  For  my  part,  I  like 
golden  calves.  I  believe  in  them.  I  bow  down  and  worship  them 
with  all  the  rest.  But,  to  talk  of  something  else  —  something  of 
importance.  What  are  you  going  to  wear  at  the  Fords'  ball  ? " 

"  I  am  not  going,"  I  replied. 

"Not  going!"  Both  Dot  and  my  aunt  looked  up  aghast.  "Xot 
going!  Why?  How?  What?" 

"  I  am  going  to  Uncle  Willard's  to  stay  a  week  or  two." 


TRUE   UNTO  DP: ATI  I.  155 

"Uncle  Willard's!"  cried  Dot.  "Why,  you  were  never  there  in 
your  life." 

"Well,  that  is, no  sign  that  I  shall  not  be  there  in  less  than  two 
days.  You  know  what  he  wrote  about  aunt  Ellinor." 

"Aunt  Ellinor,"  cried  my  aunt,  "Just  as  if  the  sickness  of  :i 
crazy  old  woman  should  take  you  from  Newport  in  the  height  of  the 
season,  when  we  have  rented  this  cottage,  too,  for  the  summer." 

"  I  am  going,"  said  I,  quietly. 

"I  wouldn't  go,  if  I  were  you,  Maggie,"  said  Dot,  "they  are  peo- 
ple we  know  nothing  about." 

"  They  are  your  mother's  brother  and  sister,  young  lady,  and  the 
more  shame  to  you  and  me  that  we  know  nothing  about  them.  Here 
we  are  within  a  hundred  miles  of  them,  and  have  never  been  there 
since  we  were  babies." 

"  They  are  wretchedly  poor,  aren't  they  ? "  said  Dot. 

"  Well,  what  would  we  be,  young  lady,  if  our  debts  were  paid  ? 
What  will  we  be,  if  we  don't  happen  to  fetch  a  good  price  in  the 
market  ?  Here  we  are,  using  up  what  little  money  we  have  to  trick 
ourselves  out,  like  cattle  at  a  country  fair,  rushing  about  from  sea- 
shore to  watering-place,  and  from  watering-place  to  Washington,  just 
like  half  the  girls  we  meet  at  those  places, '  marked,  like  sheep,  with 
figures/  waiting  for  the  highest  bidder.  I  wouldn't  talk  about  any- 
thing or  anybody  being  poor,  after  that." 

"  You  can  ridicule  my  efforts  for  you,  if  you  like,"  wailed  my 
aunt.  "  My  brother  took  your  mother,  when  a  mere  child,  from  all  her 
rustic  surroundings  —  wisely,  too.  I  don't  say  but  that  they  are  good 
enough  people,  and  in  very  comfortable  circumstances,  I  believe ;  but  I 
have  said,  and  I  still  affirm,  that  uncultivated  country  people  are  not 
proper  associates  for  young  ladies  in  your  station." 

At  this  I  looked  square  into  Aunt  Isabelle's  faded,  wax-like  face, 
and  told  her  that  I  thought  there  was  "  such  a  thing  as  people's  natures 


156 


TRUE   UNTO  DEATH. 


being  cultivated  too  much,  and  all  their  kindness,  and  tenderness,  and 
humanity  being  harrowed  down  and  overgrown  by  a  crop  of  fashionable 
frivolity  and  heartlessness."  At  which  speech,  delivered  with  exceed- 
ing clearness  of  tone,  Dot  remarked,  as  I  left  the 
room,  that  "  Maggie  was  getting  on  her  high-horse 

again." 

In  my  own  room  I  had 
it  out  with  myself.  I 
walked  straight  to  the 
mirror,  and  commenced 
brushing  out  my  long  hair, 
as  I  had  a  habit  of  doing 
in  my  heroic  moments, 
which  I  suppose  I  might 
give  another  name,  not  so 
pretty.  What  kind  of  a 
face  looked  back  on  me  ? 
Handsome,  pearly  complex- 
ion, with  cheeks  and  lips 
rosy  with  youth  and  health, 
now  crimson  with  some- 
thing else ;  eyes  WSjf^^M^KMji  that  were  caPable  of  great 
disdain  and  i^^H^^m^  great  tenderness,  quick  to 
assume  both  ex-  '^^j^Mru'l  '  '  '  pressions,  if  cause  there 

were ;  lips,  now  proudly  curved  by  the  in- 

fluence of  an  independent  spirit  made  petulant  and  angry  by  a  fancied 
wrong,  but  that  could  be  tremulous  with  better  emotions.  It  was  a 
face  that  showed  a  loving,  but  impulsive  nature,  easily  wrought  upon 
by  surrounding  influences,  and  that  needed  a  strong  hand  to  guide  it 
toward  the  right,  or  it  might  be  turned  toward  the  wrong. 

Such  was  the  face  that  confronted  me  ;  and  I  said  to  it,  "  Here  you 


TRUE   UNTO  DEATH.  157 

are,  with  your  cheeks  red  and  your  eyes  sparkling  with  a  fine  disdain 
over  heartlessness —  and  what  are  you?  You  are  as  had  as  the  worst 
of  them.  You  love  Murray  Hammond,  and  you  know  it.  There  is  no 
use  to  deny  it ;  for  now,  at  the  hare  mention  of  his  name,  your  eyes 
grow  softer,  just  as  they  do  when  you  are  with  him,  for  he  always  calls 
out  the  best  in  your  nature,  as  surely  as  Aunt  Isahelle  calls  out  the 
worst.  You  love  him,  you  trust  him  entirely,  and  yet  for  months  you 
have  hecn  holding  his  love  in  one  hand  and  the  world  in  the  other ;  the 
love  of  a  true,  tender  heart — peace,  happiness,  rest,  against  the  wealth 
of  a  millionaire  —  glitter,  splendor,  and  show.  Last  night  the  scale 
tipped  in  favor  of  Mammon,  and  how  patient  he  was  with  you.  Will 
any  one  else  ever  be  so  forbearing,  so  gentle,  and  yet  so  firm,  in  telling 
you  your  faults,  so  loving  in  helping  you  to  conquer  them  ?  No  one ! 
No  one !  For  if  you  should  live  a  thousand  years,  no  one  will  ever  care 
for  you  as  he  does.  Dear  Murray  ! "  Here  something  glittered  and  fell 
on  my  hand.  I  dashed  it  away  impatiently.  "  But  to  be  the  wife  of  a 
poor  man,  to  share  a  life  of  care  and  toil,  and  to  give  up  all  the  splen- 
dor and  high  station  that  is  offered  to  you,  and  which  all  the  girls  about 
you  are  dying  for."  Here  was  another  impatient  movement,  and  I 
turned  away  from  the  glass.  "  I  will  go  away  from  it  all.  I  will  go  to 
Uncle  Willard's,  and  forget  all  about  it  for  a  month.  There  will  be 
nothing  there  to  influence  me,  and  when  I  come  back  I  will  decide." 

I  kept  my  word,  and  went  to  Uncle  Willard's.  Never  shall  I 
forget  my  welcome. 

"Wall,  wall!  If  it  don't  beat  all!"  was  my  uncle's  greet inir. 
"  Bid  you  ever,  Betsey,  see  the  beat  on't  ?  How  she  has  grow'd  !  Got 
your  mother's  eyes,  though ;  and  for  the  sake  of  them,  my  dear,  you'd 
be  as  welcome  as  flowers  in  May,  if  we  hadn't  never  know'd  you,  and 
you  wuzzn't  no  sort  of  kin  to  us.  There,  Betsey,  see  that  smilr. 
Haint  that  little  Margery  right  over  again?  God  bless  you,  my  dear! 
I  can't  help  it," 


158  TRUE   UXTO  DEATH. 

These  last  seemingly  irrelevant  words,  spoken  in  an  apologetic 
tone,  I  knew  referred  to  the  tear  that  shone  in  Uncle  Willard's  honest 
blue  eyes,  as  I  threw  both  my  arms  about  his  neck,  and  kissed  him  over 
and  over  again,  in  my  impulsive,  impetuous  fashion.  Good,  kind  Aunt 
Betsey  next  received  my  embraces,  and  returned  them  with  motherly 
usury.  And  then  we  left  the  grape-embowered  porch,  and  entered  the 
cool,  clean  parlor,  sweet  with  flowers,  through  the  open  door  of  which  I 
could  see  the  dining-room,  with  the  tea-table  glittering  with  silver  and 
old-fashioned  china,  all  additional  tokens  of  honest  welcome. 

u  Dear  child !  we  were  afraid  you  wouldn't  come,  after  all,"  said 
Aunt  Betsey,  as  she  settled  me  in  her  most  comfortable  easy  chair,  and 
herself  removed  my  wraps.  "  It  would  have  been  a  dreadful  disap- 
pointment to  your  uncle.  He  just  worshiped  little  Margery,  as  he 
always  called  her — your  mother,  you  know,  my  dear." 

"  There,  Betsey,  look  at  them  brown  curls,  now  her  bonnet's  off. 
Haint  that  jest  like  the  pretty  head  that  used  to  be  bobbing  about  all 
over  the  old  homestead,  and  that  has  laid  asleep  on  my  shoulder  more 
than  a  thousand  times  ? " 

"How  is  Aunt  Ellinor?"  I  said,  directly. 

"Failin',  failin'  all  the  time,"  said  Uncle  Willard.  "  Rimniii' 
down,  just  like  a  clock  that  can't  be  wound  up.  Medicine  can't  wind 
her  up,  or  she  would  have  been  before  now,  for  we  have  tried  everything 
under  the  sun;  but  it's  no  use.  She  keeps  runnin'  down,  lower  and 
lower,  and  she'll  stop  stun  still,  I  am  afraid,  before  long";  and  Uncle 
Willard  ended  his  words  with  a  deep  sigh. 

After  supper,  I  asked  if  I  might  see  the  invalid.  It  was  with  a 
beating  heart  that  I  followed  Aunt  Betsey  into  the  chamber.  It  was  a 
large  room,  with  clean,  white  floor  and  white-washed  walls,  with  a  high, 
white-curtained  bed  and  quaint,  old-fashioned  furniture.  There  were 
two  large  windows  looking  toward  the  west,  and,  in  an  easy  chair, 
drawn  up  before  one  of  them,  reclined  the  figure  of  a  woman,  so  wan, 


TRUE   UNTO  DEATH. 

so  thiii,  that  she  seemed  more  the  shadow  of  a  woman  than  a  living, 
breathing  human  being.  She  was  looking  intently  into  the  west  as  we 
entered,  and  she  never  turned  her  eyes  or  noticed  us  in  any  manner, 
but  gazed  outward  steadily,  silently.  As  I  drew  near,  I  instinctively 
followed  her  gaze  out  beyond  the  green  fields  and  pastures,  beyond  the 
fringy  belt  of  forest,  out  upon  the  wide,  mysterious  expanse  of  ocean, 
plainly  visible  for  miles  ;  for  Uncle  Willard's  house  was  only  a  mile 
inland.  She  did  not  notice  us  in  any  way,  though  we  stood  so  near 
her  she  might  have  touched  us  with  one  of  those  thin,  bloodless 
hands  that  were  clasped  together  in  the  tight,  expectant  grasp  that 
one  will  involuntarily  assume  when  looking  for  some  object  most 
desired  and  momentarily  expected. 

"Ellinor,"  said  Aunt  Betsey,  "some  one  has  come  to  see  you." 

She  turned  her  eyes  slowly  round  toward  us,  with  a  slight  impa- 
tience visible  in  them;  and  I  saw  then  that  she  was  at  least  fifty  years 
old,  with  perfectly  white  hair,  put  back  from  a  face  that  must  have  been 
in  the  past  very  beautiful,  but  was  now  wan,  and  worn,  and  eager,  as  if 
from  long  watching ;  and  her  eyes  had  a  seeking,  longing,  wistful  look 
in  them,  and  a  patience  that  was  inexpressibly  touching. 

I  stood  a  little  behind  Aunt  Betsey,  and  Ellinor  did  not  catch  sight 
of  me,  and  she  just  glanced  at  aunt,  and  then  immediately  turned  to 
the  window  again,  and  put  up  one  of  her  thin  hands  to  shade  her  eyes, 
as  she  gazed  far  out  on  the  ocean. 

"  I  thought  I  saw  him.  I  was  sure  he  was  coming."  This  she 
said  to  herself,  and  as  if  she  had  entirely  forgotten  the  presence  of  any 
one  but  herself. 

"  Ellinor,  see  if  you  know  who  this  is,"  and  taking  my  hand,  Aunt 
Betsey  drew  me  forward,  before  the  easy-chair. 

Obediently  and  patiently  the  invalid  turned  her  eyes  toward  the 
speaker,  and  then  rested  them  on  my  face.  For  the  first  time  a  faint 
gleam  of  interest  and  meaning  flashed  across  her  countenance. 


160  TRUE   UNTO  DEATH. 

"  Little  Margery,  where  have  you  been  all  day  ? ''  she  said. 

"  It  is  little  Margery's  daughter,"  said  Aunt  Betsey.  "  Don't  you 
remember  little  Margery  married,  and  came  back  here  visiting,  with  her 
two  little  babies,  and  died  here  ? " 

I  had  taken  one  of  the  thin  hands  in  mine  ;  but  before  Aunt 
Betsey  had  finished,  the  invalid  drew  it  away,  and  shaded  her  eyes 
again,  from  which  all  expression  had  vanished  save  expectancy,  and 
looked  out  —  out  over  the  water. 

"  I  am  sure  I  saw  him.  I  think  he  will  come  to-night,"  she 
murmured. 

"  It  is  no  use,"  said  Aunt  Betsey  to  me,  as  we  went  down  the  dim, 
winding  stairway  into  the  pleasant  sitting-room.  "  I  thought,  may  be, 
seeing  you  would  rouse  her,  but  it  is  no  use." 

u  Wont  you  tell  me  about  her,  Aunt  Betsey  ?  What  made 
her  so?" 

"  It  is  a  long  story ;  but  let  me  get  my  knitting-work,  and  we  will 
take  our  chairs  out  into  the  porch,  and  I'll  tell  you  now,  while  your 
uncle  is  doing  the  barn  chores,  and  Hannah  is  washing  the  dishes." 

So  we  took  our  chairs  out  into  the  shadow  of  the  grape-vine. 
Truly,  as  Aunt  Betsey  prophesied,  she  made  it  a  long  story.  But  I 
will  not  quote  her  words.  I  will  relate  the  story  as  shortly  and  plainly 
as  possible.  It  is  a  story  as  old  as  love  and  womanly  caprice,  as  sad 
as  error  and  vain  repentance. 

When  my  father  was  a  young  man,  he  went  down  into  the  country 
to  spend  the  summer,  to  see  about  a  large  landed  estate  that  had  fallen 
to  him  on  the  death  of  his  father.  He  obtained  board  at  my  grand- 
father Pryne's,  or  rather  at  my  Uncle  Willard's,  for  grandfather  had 
died  some  years  before,  leaving  his  great  farm,  then  in  a  wild  state,  to 
his  son  Willard,  and  the  family  consisted  of  Willard,  Ellinor,  and  little 
Margaret,  the  only  child  of  grandfather  Pryne's  second  marriage. 

Little  Margaret  was  a  wonderfully  beautiful  child,  the  pet  of  the 


TRUE   UNTO  DEATH. 

household  ;  and  her  extreme  beauty  and  sweet  disposition  soon  caused 
her  to  be  a  great  favorite  with  the  young  boarder.  As  there  were  no 
educational  privileges  in  that  then  out-of-the-way  place,  he  offered  to 
give  the  child  lessons  during  his  stay ;  and  as  Ellinor  requested  per- 
mission to  share  the  lessons,  he  readily  complied  with  her  request. 
Ellinor,  who  was  about  eighteen  at  this  time,  was  betrothed  to  a  young 
sailor,  to  whom  she  was  passionately  attached.  But  she  was  a  woman, 
and  what  woman  of  eighteen,  beautiful,  full  of  life  and  spirits,  can 
refrain  from  testing  her  power  over  the  heart  she  holds  dear. 

So,  when  Richard  Wright,  her  lover,  came  to  visit  her  one  morn- 
ing, and  found  her  with  the  handsome  young  stranger  over  their 
books — he  was  bending  over  her,  explaining  some  questions  to  her,  and 
Margery  had  left  the  room  for  the  instant ;  and  when  Ellinor  read  his 
annoyance  in  his  face,  what  was  it  but  womanly  vanity  or  caprice  that 
made  her,  after  that,  when  they  were  alone  together,  try  to  majte  him 
think  that  she  and  the  young  stranger  were  attached  to  each  other? 
He  left  at  last  in  hot  anger,  which  somewhat  alarmed  her.  u  But,  never 
mind,"  she  said ;  "  he  will  come  back  again  in  the  evening,  and  then  I 
will  explain  all  and  ask  his  forgiveness."  But  he  did  not  come.  The 
next  day  she  said,  "  He  will  surely  come,  of  course  he  will ;  for  to-mor- 
row he  sails."  But  he  did  not  come.  She  was  in  a  fever  of  excite- 
ment. At  nightfall,  unable  to  stay  in  the  house,  she  started  down  to 
the  seashore,  to  a  favorite  haunt  of  theirs,  hoping  he  might,  at  least,  go 
there.  Before  she  went  she  sent  little  Margery  to  a  rose-bush,  that  was 
a  favorite  of  her  lover's,  to  get  a  rose  to  put  in  her  hair.  He  liked  to 
see  white  roses  in  her  dark  curls.  But  she  could  not  wait  for  the 
child's  loitering  steps.  He  might  get  tired  of  waiting  for  her ;  so  she 
hastened  down  to  the  old  rock  on  the  beach.  Alas!  there  was  no  one 
there  —  nothing  but  the  cold  moonlight  on  the  waters.  Next  day  news 
came  that  Richard  Wright  had  embarked  on  a  strange  ship,  and  had 
gone  no  one  knew  whither.  And  after  a  brain  fever,  so  violent  that  her 
11 


162 


TRUE   UNTO  DEATH. 


life  was  despaired  of,  Ellinor  recovered,  to  be  the  woman  she  was,  a 
shadow  of  her  former  self — watching,  waiting,  looking  for  the  ship  that 
never  came  back  !  At  first  she  would  wander  through  the  house,  and 
down  to  the  shore,  where  she  would  stay  for  hours,  with  her  eyes 
strained  out  to  sea.  But  as  years  rolled  away  she  became  unable  to 


WATCHING   AND    WAITING. 

walk  to  the  shore,  and  she  would  slowly  creep  up  the  long  stairs  to  the 
west  chamber,  as  they  called  it,  and  stand  by  the  window  for  hours, 
gazing  out  over  the  water.  At  last  she  refused  to  come  down  at  all, 
and  remained  there,  looking  forever  for  the  ship  that  had  most  likely 
sunk  beneath  the  waves,  for  no  news  was  ever  heard  of  it. 


TRUE   UNTO  DEATH.  163 

Little  Margaret,  my  mother,  was  dear  to  Unele  Willard  as  the  very 
apple  of  his  eye ;  but  when  Aunt  Ellinor  recovered,  to  be  the  wreck 
that  she  was,  his  very  love  for  little  Margaret  led  him  to  consent  to  the 
oiler  my  father  made,  to  put  the  child  at  school,  and  give  her  as  fine  an 
education  as  the  country  afforded.  Uncle  Willard  was  young  and 
unmarried,  and  poor  then,  for  the  farm,  which  now  was  a  fine  property, 
was  then  hardly  able  to  supply  the  necessities  of  life.  There  was  no 
female  society  near  and  no  schools ;  and,  with  Ellinor  in  that  state,  how 
could  he  refuse?  So  he  let  his  darling  go,  to  fit  herself  for  a  teacher, 
he  thought,  and  so  escape  the  drudgery  of  farm  life.  But  she  never 
taught,  for,  at  eighteen  years  of  age,  she  left  school,  to  become  the  wife 
of  my  father. 

Uncle  Willard  had  married  in  the  meantime,  and  finally  grew  rich 
and  prosperous.  My  father  and  mother  spent  the  first  years  of  their 
married  life  abroad.  But  shortly  after  their  return,  while  I  was  a  baby,, 
my  mother's  health  failed,  and  she  was  ordered  by  her  physicians  into- 
the  country.  She  returned  to  the  old  homestead,  to  which  her  heart 
had  so  often  yearned  during  her  pleasant  life  abroad.  Soon  after  her 
arrival  she  was  attacked  by  a  low  fever,  prevalent  at  the  time,  and  died 
before  her  husband  could  get  to  her  side.  My  father  followed  her  in 
less  than  a  year,  leaving  his  two  orphan  babies  to  the  care  of  his  sister 
Isabelle,  with  whom  we  had  lived  ever  since. 

Just  as  my  aunt  finished  the  story,  Uncle  Willard's  voice  was 
heard  in  the  kitchen,  and  Aunt  Betsey  left  me  alone. 

The  glow  all  faded  from  the  sky,  and,  one  by  one,  the  stars 
came  out,  a  softer,  holier  light,  in  which  we  may  read  our  souls,  when 
the  earth  is  hushed  to  sucli  stillness  that  we  may  listen  to  low  voices 
unheard  in  the  garish  glare  of  day.  I  am  always  impressible,  and  I 
believe  I  thought  some  good  thoughts  there  on  the  old  brown  doorstep, 
amongst  the  summer  roses.  Indoors  came  softly  to  my  ears  the  loving 
voices  of  those  old  lovers ;  and  up  in  the  chamber  above  me  I  knew  was 


164  TRUE   UNTO  DEATH. 

that  image  of  deathless  constancy.  How  far  off  and  puerile  seemed 
the  atmosphere  of  vanity  and  worldliness  in  which  I  had  moved  so 
lately ;  of  what  infinite  value  seemed  to  me  to  be  truth,  honor,  love. 

Restful  and  sweet  was  my  life  there  for  the  next  two  months,  for 
my  fortnight  grew  into  eight  weeks.  I  went  out  into  the  hay-field  with 
Uncle  Willard,  explored  the  fragrant  depths  of  the  great,  friendly-look- 
ing barns  with  him,  and  patted  his  sleek,  mild-eyed  Alderneys  on  their 
honest  heads.  I  salted  his  sheep  and  fed  his  chickens ;  and  every  act 
of  mine  was  good  in  his  eyes,  my  likeness  to  my  mother  so  glorified 
and  endeared  me  to  him. 

But,  above  all,  it  was  my  pleasure  to  go  up  to  the  far-off,  quiet 
chamber,  and  sit  for  hours  with  Aunt  Ellin  or.  Although  she  seldom 
spoke  to  me  or  looked  at  me,  they  thought,  and  I  thought,  that  my 
presence  seemed  to  quiet  her,  in  her  more  restless  moments.  In  that 
darkened  mind,  so  remote  from  our  comprehension,  some  shadowy 
remembrance  of  the  child  she  loved  may  have  been  awakened,  although 
she  never  mentioned  her  name  after  that  first  night. 

Sometimes  I  would  carry  her  flowers  I  had  gathered  in  my  walks 
with  Uncle  Willard.  She  would  always  take  them  in  her  hands,  and, 
perhaps,  look  at  them  a  minute,  and  then  they  would  drop  unnoticed  at 
her  feet,  as  her  wistful  eyes  turned  again  to  the  west,  to  the  wide  waste 
of  waters  —  boundless  they  seemed  to  me,  but  not  so  boundless  as  her 
faith,  as  her  hope. 

But  as  autumn  drew  near  she  failed  visibly.  It  seemed  as  if  her 
mind,  her  restless,  eager  mind  was  wearing  out  her  frail  body.  It  was 
upon  the  first  day  of  September  that  the  barque  Lisbon  sailed,  and  they 
said  she  was  always  worse  during  these  days.  At  last,  during  the  latter 
part  of  August  she  was  obliged  to  keep  her  bed  entirely ;  but  she 
would  have  it  drawn  out  into  the  room,  where,  from  her  pillow,  she 
could  watch  the  far-off  horizon  line,  where  the  water  melted  into 
the  sky. 


TRUE   UNTO  DEATH.  165 

The  first  day  of  September  was  one  of  the  most  perfect  I  had  ever 
seen ;  and  in  the  afternoon  Uncle  Willard,  Aunt  Betsey,  and  I  walked 
down  to  the  lower  orchard  to  see  what  splendid  apples  Sam  Hastings, 
the  hired  man,  was  gathering  from  the  new  grafts  that  had  never  borne 
before. 

We  went  up  to  Aunt  Ellinor's  room  before  we  started,  to  see  if  she 
wanted  anything ;  but  she  lay,  as  usual,  with  her  eyes  bent  upon  the 
west,  and  did  not  notice  us  in  the  least. 

We  were  gone,  perhaps,  an  hour,  and,  on  returning  to  the  house,  I 
found  a  rose,  that  had  strangely  blossomed  again,  upon  a  rose-bush  that 
stood  out  in  the  corner  of  the  meadow,  near  a  heap  of  stones  and 
bricks.  I  wondered  how  this  rose-bush  grew  so  far  away  from  the 
house ;  but  Aunt  Betsey  said  the  original  house  had  stood  there,  and 
added,  "  That  is  the  very  bush  that  Ellinor  sent  Margery  to  get  a  rose 
from  just  thirty-two  years  ago  to-night.  Richard  Winslow  used  to  come 
through  this  lot,"  she  said,  "  and  he  always  picked  one  of  these  roses, 
and  brought  it  to  her  to  put  in  her  hair." 

I  looked  down  into  the  white  depths  of  the  flower,  renewed  by  gra- 
cious nature  to  be  again  so  fresh  and  sweet,  and  thought  of  the  wasted, 
sorrowful  lives  that  could  never  bloom  into  beauty  again — never  here; 
but  the  very  mute  lips  of  the  flower  I  held  rebuked  me  and  said  to  my 
heart,  that  the  good  God,  whose  servant  nature  is,  and  who  is  therefore 
above  nature,  must  somewhere — somewhere  in  His  mercy  keep  some 
deathless  summer,  in  which  the  lives  so  baffled  and  barren  here  may 
blossom  into  beauty. 

When  we  reached  the  house  I  said  to  Aunt  Betsey,  "  I  believe  I 
will  go  up  and  see  how  Aunt  Ellinor  is." 

"  Wall,  you  run  right  along,  my  dear,  and  I  will  make  a  good  cup 
of  tea  for  her  in  a  minute,  and  a  little  slice  of  toast,  and  will  come  up 
in  a  few  minutes  and  bring  it." 

As  I  opened  the  door  I  started  back  an  instant,  in  my  surprise ; 


166  TRUE   UNTO  DEATH. 

for  Aunt  Ellinor,  who  had  not  left  her  bed  for  a  week,  was  up  sitting  by 
the  open  window,  through  which  a  flood  of  the  sunset  light  was  pour- 
ing. How  she  had  gotten  from  her  bed  to  the  window,  so  weak  as  she 
was,  I  could  not  tell.  But  there  she  was,  and  she  had  opened  an  old-fash- 
ioned chest  of  drawers,  that  stood  just  before  her,  and  taken  out  of  it  a 
crimson  shawl,  woven  in  a  strange  device,  that  had  evidently  come  from 
some  foreign  port.  The  drawer  was  open,  and,  as  I  glanced  into  it,  I 
saw  great  sea-shells,  branches  of  red  and  white  coral,  and  various  trin- 
kets, all  of  foreign  manufacture. 

There  she  sat  by  the  window,  in  her  long  white  night-dress,  and 
the  crimson  shawl  wrapped  around  her,  looking  out  as  usual  over  the 
waters.  I  spoke  to  her,  and,  for  the  first  time  since  the  night  of  my 
arrival,  she  looked  up  at  me,  and  said : 

"  Little  Margery."  And  then  seeing  the  rose,  which  I  still  held  in 
my  hand,  she  reached  out  her  hand  for  it,  and  added,  "  What  made  you 
gone  so  long  after  it,  little  Margery?"  And,  taking  it,  she  made  a 
movement  as  if  to  put  it  into  her  hair,  which  hung  loosened  and  white 
as  snow  about  her  shoulders. 

Wishing  to  humor  her  fancy,  I  said,  "  Let  me  put  it  into  your  hair 
for  you,  Aunt  Ellinor." 

But  she  drew  back  with  a  slight  movement. 

"  No  !  He  will,"  she  said.  "  I  think  he  is  coming !  "  And,  drop- 
ping the  rose  into  her  lap,  she  gazed  far  out  to  sea,  with  her  patient, 
sorrowful  eyes. 

As  she  looked  her  face  grew  glorified,  triumphant ;  and  she 
exclaimed,  in  a  voice  I  did  not  know,  so  glad  it  was,  so  exultant : 

"  He  is  coming !     There  he  is  !  " 

Instinctively,  I  followed  her  glad,  eager  glance  and  the  wave  of 
her  wan  fingers. 

The  setting1  sun  lay  upon  the  water,  in  a  long,  golden  pathway, 
down  which  she  looked. 


TRUE   UNTO  DEATH. 


167 


"He  is  coming  with  his  hands  outstretched  to  me!  He  has 
forgiven  me!  He  is  smiling!  0  Richard!  Richard!" 

Still  looking  into  the  glorified  west,  still  with  her  hands  out- 
stretched, as  if  in  joyous  welcome,  with  the  restful  content  and  rapt- 


"OH,  RICHARD!  RICHARD!" 

urous  smile  on  her  lips  and  in  her  eyes,  she  essayed  to  rise,  sunk  back 
in  her  chair — her  life's  tragedy  was  ended. 

I  stayed  until  after  the  funeral,  and  then  went  back  to  Newport. 


168  TRUE   UNTO  DEATH. 

The  night  after  my  arrival  I  was  at  a  party  in  the  same  house  where 
my  last  conversation  had  taken  place  with  Murray.  I  saw  him  stand- 
ing alone  in  the  same  bay-window.  The  same  gay  crowd  was  surging 
without,  the  same  music  was  swelling  through  the  rooms.  I  went  up  to 
him  noiselessly,  and  said  : 

"  Murray,  wont  you  speak  to  me  ?  " 

He  started  and  looked  down  upon  me,  and  then  took  the  hand  I 
timidly  extended  in  both  his. 

"  Did  you  drop  out  of  the  clouds  ? "  he  said. 

"  0  Murray !  can  you  forgive  ?  "  I  almost  sobbed. 

Whatever  his  answer  was,  it  was  satisfactory.  A  while  after,  lie 
asked,  softly : 

"What  has  changed  my  little  wild  eagle  into  such  a  dove?" 

"  I  can't  tell  you  now  and  here.  It  is  too  sorrowful,  too  sacred,"  I 
faltered ;  "  but  sometime  I  will  tell  you." 

It  was  not  until  the  evening  after  our  marriage-day,  however,  as 
the  twilight  gathered  about  us,  that  I  told  Murray  Aunt  Ellinor's  story, 
her  life  and  her  death,  and  how  it  taught  me  the  infinite  value  and 
sacredness  of  love,  and  that  everything  else  upon  earth  was  as  nothing 
compared  to  it. 

As  we  re-entered  the  drawing-room  after  my  story  Dot  placed  a 
letter  in  my  hand.  I  opened  it,  and  a  check  dropped  out  on  to  the  car- 
pet. The  letter  was  as  follows : 

"LITTLE  MARGERY,  MY  DEAR, — Your  Aunt  Betsey  and  me  couldn't  come  to  your 
wedding  in  body,  mine  bein'  laid  up  with  a  spraint  knee.  But,  my  dear,  our  hearts 
was  there,  both  of  'em.  They  wasn't  spraint,  and  could  move  off  easy;  and  where 
should  they  move  to,  if  it  wasn't  to  little  Margery's  weddin'  ?  Little  Margery,  that  is 
as  dear  to  us,  Betsey  and  me,  as  if  she  was  our  own  little  one  that  we  laid  in  the 
churchyard  thirty  years  ago,  and  has  growed  up  in  heaven. 

"We  have  talked  it  all  over,  Betsey  and  me;  and  who  should  we  give  Ellinor's 
property  to,  if  it  wasn't  to  little  Margery?  It  has  been  in  good  hands,  and  amounts  to 
twenty  thousand  dollars.  I  send  you  the  check  to-day.  , 


TRUE   UNTO  DEATH. 

"  We,  Betsey  and  me,  have  got  more  than  we  can  ever  use;  and  as  we  hear  that 
your  sister,  that  Betsey  and  me  haint  never  seen,  is  about  to  marry  an  independent  nrh 
man,  who  should  we  want  to  leave  our  money  to,  when  God  sees  fit  to  call  us,  but  to 
little  Margery  and  the  man  she  has  chose?  But,  please  God,  that  day  may  be  far  away 
yet;  for  it  is  a  good  world,  and  we  love  to  live  in  it,  your  Aunt  BeNcv  and  me. 

"Now,  hoping,  my  dear,  that  this  letter  will  find  you  as  happy  as  we  wish  you 
was,  which  is  happy  enough  for  anybody,  I  will  close,  by  sending  of  you  my  love. 
Betsey's  and  mine,  and  telling  you  what  is  the  truth,  that  I  am  always  my  dear  little 

Margery's  true  and  loving, 

UNCLE  WILLARD." 


A  BODY    IN   THE   SNOW. 


ECIL'S  mother  died  when  he  was  a  baby  ; 
and  I  was  three  years  older  than  he.     Per- 
haps that  was  one  reason  why  my  love  for 
him  seemed  so  much  stronger  than  the  love 
of  other  sisters  for  their  brothers. 

I  remember,  when  he  was  very  small,  how  I  used  to  follow  him 
around,  so  afraid  he  would  get  killed.  That  was  my  great  fear.  There 
was  not  a  dog  in  the  neighborhood,  however  well-intentioned  and  cor- 
rect in  deportment,  but  I  looked  upon  it  as  the  natural  enemy  of  Cecil. 
Birds'  nests  on  perilous  boughs  seemed  in  league  against  his  white,  sup- 
ple limbs ;  green  plums  and  apples  appeared  to  be  created  solely  for  his 
overthrow ;  and  the  ocean  (we  lived  only  half  a  mile  inland)  seemed  a 
great,  restless,  roaring  monster,  that,  in  case  of  his  escaping  other 
perils,  was  constantly  watching  out  for  him,  calling  out  to  him  forever 
with  a  great  hoarse  voice,  as  the  waves  swashed  against  the  beach, 
"  Come  down  here,  and  I'll  finish  you  !  Come  down  here,  and  I'll  finish 
you ! " 

He  was  my  thought,  my  care,  and  my  delight,  from  dawn  till  sun- 
set. And  he  was  such  a  bright,  affectionate  little  fellow,  loving  me  bet- 
ter than  any  one  else. 


172 


CECIL    VAIL. 


We  had  a  step-mother,  a  large  woman,  with  small  black  eyes  and 
very  red  cheeks.  And  my  first  recollections  of  her  are  her  wondering 
aloud  many  times  each  day,  what  would  become  of  us  if  it  wasn't  for 
her.  This  seemed  to  be  the  standing  subject  of  inquiry  in  her  mind. 

particular  ill- 
would  p  r  o- 
question,  as 
tune  would 
more  over- 
had  it  not 
And  on  our 
sions  of  bet- 
she  would 
question  tri- 
if  it  were  ow- 
having  an  ex- 
the  better 
was  brought 
I  remember 


If  we  had  any 
fortune,  she 
p  o  u  n  d  the 
if  the  misfor- 
liave  been 
whelming 
been  for  her. 
rare  o  c  c  a- 
ter  fortune 
propound  the 
imiphantly,as 
ing  to  her 
istence  that 
state  of  affairs 
about.  And 


OUR  STEP-MOTHER. 


that  I  heard  the  words  so  often  that  I,  too,  used  to  think  of  it  a  great 
deal,  and  wonder,  in  a  childish,  quiet  way,  what  would  really  have  "  be- 
come of  us"  had  it  not  been  for  her. 

•  There  are  two  or  three  remembrances  that  stand  out  like  pictures 
against  the  shadowy  background  of  that  far-away  time.  One  is  of 
Cecil's  standing  by  the  open  window  of  our  sitting-room,  looking  out  on 
the  beauty  of  the  western  sky,  flaming  with  the  sunset  glory  of  gold 
and  crimson.  I  can  see  just  how  he  looked.  His  little  white  night- 
gown had  slipped  off  one  round,  white  shoulder ;  and  I  can  see  just  how 
the  bright  glow  in  the  sky  was  reflected  in  his  large,  wide-open  brown 
eyes ;  and  how  he  clasped  his  hands  together  in  surprise  and  rapture, 
as  if  he  had  caught  sight,  for  the  first  time,  of  some  rare,  unknown 
realm  of  beauty  ;  and  how  glad  his  voice  was,  as  he  cried  • 


CECIL    VAIL. 


173 


"Oh,  Nora!  Mamma!  come  here!  Come  here,  and  see  the  pretti- 
ness  up  there!" 

"  You  will  take  your  death-cold  standing  there  in  the  window.  Go 
right  up  stairs  to  bed.  Oh  dear!  What  would  become  of  'em  all  if  it 
wasn't  for  me  ?  " 


rr 


WATCHING  THE  SUNSET. 


I  was  quite  young,  and  could  not  be  expected  to  philosophize ;  but 
I  remember  thinking  that  I  ought  to  be  grateful  to  think  Cecil  had  some 
one  to  keep  him  from  taking  his  "death-cold."  And  still  1  plainly 
remember  that  I  had  an  uncomfortable  sinking  feeling,  a  sort  of  lonely 
heart-ache,  that  made  me  creep  up  stairs,  and  lie  down  on  the  sid»-  <>t 
Cecil's  little  crib,  and  take  him  in  my  arms,  and  tell  him  stories  in  a 
low  voice.  And  I  can  see  now  just  how  large  and  sorrowful  his  eyes 
looked  up  at  me  from  his  little  white  pillow  as  I  went  in,  and  how  they 


174 


CECIL    VAIL. 


lit  up  during  the  wonderful  adventures  of  Alibaba,  and  how  pretty  lie 
looked  as  he  lay  asleep  at  last,  with  a  smile  on  his  lips  ;  and  how  many 
times  I  kissed  him,  but  softly,  that  I  might  not  awaken  him. 


About  my  father,  at  this  time,  there  was 
a  mystery.  He  would  remain  for  days  shut 
up  in  his  room;  and  then  we  dared  not,  for 

our  lives,  go  near  it.  And  when  we  would  question  our  step-mother, 
why  we  mustn't  go  into  his  room,  and  why  he  shut  himself  up  so,  she 
would  frown  upon  us  darkly,  and  bid  us  "  ask  her  no  questions." 

Sometimes,  when  she  was  in  a  softer  mood,  she  would  add, 
"  Poor  creeters,  what  would  become  of  you,  if  it  wasn't  for  me  ? " 
which  would  plunge  me,  too,  in  the  same  long  train  of  inquiry,  and 
gloomy  reflections. 

My  very  first  memory  of  seeing  him,  was,  (and  I  must  have  been 
very  young,)  I  remember,  thinking  how  very  handsome  he  was.  I 
know  now,  that  I  had  been  away,  staying  with  an  aunt  in  the  city, 
and  I  have  a  faint  recollection  of  papa's  taking  me  into  a  darkened 
room,  where  there  was  a  lady  with  a  white,  beautiful  face,  and  eyes 
like  Cecil's,  and  her  kissing  me,  and  weeping  over  me,  and  calling 
me  "  her  pretty  darling." 


CECIL   VAIL.  175 

There  were  some  white  lilies  in  a  vase  near  the  couch  whciv 
she  was  lying,  and  though  I  cannot  recollect  anything  else  there  was 
in  the  room,  or  how  I  got  there,  or  where  I  went  from  there  —  though 
now  I  know  that  I  went  home  again  witli  my  aunt  —  still,  I  never 
see  a  white  lily,  but  I  am  carried  back  into  the  dream  again  of  the 
palo  lady,  and  papa's  handsome  face  as  he  led  me  in. 

Another  dream  stands  out  faintly  against  the  misty  obscurity  of 
that  last  time.  It  must  have  been  the  night  before  I  returned  home 
to  stay.  I  awoke  on  a  sofa  in  my  aunt's  room,  and  she  was  talking 
about  me. 

"  Poor  little  Nora,"  she  was  saying,  "  how  sorry  I  am  to  leave 
her ;  but  India  is  no  place  for  a  child." 

"  No ;  and  with  your  health,  too,  the  child  will  be  better  off  at 
home." 

u  But  such  a  home,"  the  plaintive  voice  went  on.  "  How  could 
he  ever  choose  such  a  woman,  his  housekeeper,  to  take  the  place  of 
our  poor  lost  Edith  ?  It  is  a  mystery  I  never  can  understand." 

"  No  one  ought  to  understand  it,"  said  my  uncle  in  wrathful 
accents.  "  But  one  thing  is  certain  ;  Harold  is  sinking  lower  and  lower 
into  ruin  every  day." 

"I  know  it  —  my  poor  brother!"  And  here  my  aunt  began  to 
weep,  while  my  uncle,  with  many  loving  words,  tried  to  comfort  her. 
As  for  me,  I  lay  silently  brooding  over  the  thoughts  their  words 
awakened.  I  knew  they  were  speaking  of  my  father,  for  his  name 
was  Harold.  What  was  this  dreadful  place  called  "  ruin "  into  which 
he  was  sinking,  so  terrible  a  place  that  my  aunt  wept  to  think  of  his 
entering  it  ? 

Life  again  seems  a  misty  dream,  and  I  find  myself  at  home,  lov- 
ing my  pretty  brother  better  than  anything  else,  and  still  haunted  by 
a  vague  horror  and  curiosity  concerning  the  ruin  connected  with  my 
father's  name. 


176  CECIL   VAIL. 

With  my  first  clear  and  distinct  recollections  of  my  father,  comes 
the  knowledge  that  he  disliked  and  avoided  me.  At  first,  only  the 
dreamy  knowledge  of  the  fact  was  apparent  to  my  childish  apprehen- 
sion, and  it  was  not  until  long  after  I  became  aware  what  the  word 
"  ruin "  meant  in  connection  with  him,  that  the  reason  of  his  dislike 
mid  avoidance  became  apparent  to  me.  And  I  thought  I  was  to 
him,  like  a  visible  conscience,  and  the  eyes  of  my  own  mother,  whom 
I  greatly  resembled,  looking  through  mine,  reproached  him,  agonized 
him  with  the  memory  of  what  he  was  once,  what  he  might  have 
been,  and  the  wreck  he  had  become  now. 

But  it  ended.  There  was  a  body  found  in  the  snow  —  a  night 
of  horror  unspeakable  —  a  day  of  confusion,  with  a  mystery  lying  in 
the  darkened  parlor  —  a  funeral  —  a  grave  into  which  the  falling  snow 
sifted,  covering  it  softly  with  its  pure  whiteness.  And  looking  back 
into  that  grave  now,  my  only  comfort  is  that  God's  mercy  is  whiter 
than  the  snow. 

There  was  enough  saved  for  us  out  of  what  had  been  a  hand- 
some fortune,  to  provide  us  food  and  clothing,  and  a  home  —  such  as 
it  was.  But  we  were  the  children  of  a  drunkard  —  the  village  children 
never  let  us  forget  that.  And  one  of  the  bitterest  memories  of  my 
childhood  is  seeing  Cecil's  sensitive  lips  quiver  at  their  taunting 
words. 

I  could  endure  reproach  and  upbraiding  myself,  but  Cecil  —  I  can- 
not remember  the  time  that  I  did  not  hold  his  well-being  and  happiness 
dearer  than  my  own,  and  why  should  I  not  ?  For  he  loved  me,  and 
he  was  all  in  the  world  I  had  to  love.  And  I  had  a  loving  heart ; 
many,  many  faults  it  had,  but  it  was  a  loving  heart,  I  know.  And  it 
seemed  as  if  my  affections,  blown  away  from  every  other  support  to 
which  they  had  tried  to  cling,  all,  all  twined  about  Cecil,  my  brother 
—  my  darling. 

On  my  tenth  birthday,  an  old  lady,  my  step-mother's  mother,  came 


CECIL   VAIL. 


177 


to  live  with  us.  I  remember  it  was  my  birthday,  for  Cecil  asked  my 
step-mother  in  the  morning,  "if  she  wasn't  going  to  bake  Nora  a 
birthday  cake,  as  Kitty  Snow's  mother  did?" 

And  how  well  I  recollect  her  reply :  — 

"  That  she  guessed  Nora  would  find  that  birthdays  would  come 
often  enough,  and  bring  her  trouble  enough,  without  coaxin'  'em 
along  with  sweet  cakes." 

And  how  well  I  remember 
what  a  horror  of  birthdays  fell 
ui)on  me  then.  Mrs.  Dagget, 
the  old  lady,  came  while  we 
were  talking  about  this.  She 
was  a  queer  looking  little  old 
lady,  with  a  yellow,  wrinkled 
face,  and  a  broad,  white  border 
standing  out  around  it.  Her 
first  words  to  us  were :  — 

"I  suppose  you  make  your 
mother  an  awful  sight  of  work, 
-  don't  they  Melissa  ? " 

Melissa  replied  with  a  great 
deal  of  feeling  and  earnestness, 
that  we  did.  And  then  Mrs. 
Dagget  remarked  with  a  groan, 
that  she  supposed  she  should  be  another  trouble  to  her,  but  she  shouldn't 
be  long,  for  she  couldn't  stand  it  but  a  few  days,  "feelin"'  as  she  did 
then,  "  so  run  down,  and  gone  to  the  stummuck." 

And  then  noticing  Cecil's   red   cheeks,  she   asked  if  they  wa-n't 
caused  by  "  inwerd  fever;"    she  had  lost  a  child   just  about  his  age, 
and  that  looked  a  good  deal  like  him,  with  "inwerd   fever,"  and   lie 
\\as  "buried  up  in  the  cold  ground." 
12 


MRS.    DAGGETT. 


178  CECIL   VAIL. 

Which  made  me  shudder,  and  cling  to  Cecil's  hand  more  closely. 
And  then  regarding  my  rather  shabby  gown,  she  asked  her  daughter 
if  she  supposed  one  of  her  old  dresses  could  be  fixed  over  for 
me?  But  Melissa  could  do  as  she  was  "a  mind  to  with  'em;"  they 
would  all  fall  to  her  before  long,  if  there  kept  up  such  a  goneness 
at  her  "stummuck." 

This  was  our  first  introduction  to  the  old  lady,  and  I  do  not 
think  that  in  after  days  she  ever  contributed  any  more  to  our  cheer- 
fulness and  happiness  than  at  that  first  interview.  Although,  some- 
times, with  the  good  feeling  that  had  actuated  her  in  bequeathing  her 
gown  to  me,  she  would  call  Cecil  and  myself  to  her  side  on  the  Sab- 
bath, and  read  the  Bible  to  us.  But  she  would  always  select  the 
chapters  in  which  Israel  was  doomed,  or  Job  bewailed,  or  the  prophets 
lamented ;  and  this,  together  with  the  fact  that  she  was  obliged  to 
stop  and  spell  nearly  all  of  the  larger  words,  detracted  much  from 
our  enjoyment. 

It  seemed  as  if  the  harder  the  words  were,  and  the  more  diffi- 
cult for  her  to  manage,  the  more  she  delighted  in  them.  There  was 
one  chapter  which  she  oftenest  selected  ;  it  was  concerning  the  Israel- 
ites journeying  through  Aroer,  which  she  always  called  A  Roarer,  and 
their  encounter  with  the  Horims,  which,  after  spelling  many  times, 
she  persisted  in  calling  Homers.  And  I  distinctly  remember  thinking 
they  were  strange  monsters,  half-men  and  half-beasts,  with  horns  grow- 
ing out  of  their  foreheads.  Cecil  and  I  differing  in  our  views  as  we 
talked  it  over  afterward,  he,  full  of  a  boy's  martial  instincts,  thinking 
the  Homers  were  connected  with  a  brass  band.  But  this  chapter 
always  gave  her  special  delight,  although  there  was  not  a  name  in  it 
which  was  not  too  much  for  her,  and  which  did  not  cause  her  scholarly 
overthrow. 

At  the  foot  of  the  old  lady's  bed  stood  a  hair  trunk,  so  worn, 
that  it  looked  like  a  very  old  dog,  that  had  been  scalded,  but  still 


(JE(JIL   VAIL.  179 

remained  faithful  to  its  mistress,  guarding  the  foot  of  her  bed.  And 
sometimes  when  we  had  specially  pleased  her,  she  would  go  to  this 
trunk  and  take  out  a  musty,  leather-bound  copy  of  Fox's  Book  of 
Martyrs,  and  show  us  the  pictures.  On  such  nights,  I  would  always 
have  to  go  and  lie  down  by  Cecil  till  he  went  to  sleep.  Many  odd 
questions  would  he  ask  me  concerning  the  martyrs,  when  a  sleepiness 


THE    "  SWEKT    STONY    OK   OLD." 

overcame  him  he  would  confound  with  the  dwellers  in  the  wilder- 
ness, and  in  the  odd  vagaries  of  dreams,  he  would  call  out  that  a 
Homer  was  after  him  with  a  red-hot  gridiron. 

It  was    not  till  many  years  after,  that  I  learned  what  the  Bible, 
which  to  Cecil  and  me  was  full  of  terror  and  weariness,  might  be  to 


180  CECIL    VAIL. 

children.  I  heard  a  mother  reading  to  her  happy  little  flock  about 
the  child  Samuel,  the  infant  Jesus  in  his  mother's  human,  loving- 
arms,  and  the  divine  Saviour,  who  lived  and  blest  little  children.  And 
as  their  eyes  brightened  and  grew  reverent  as  she  read,  though  it 
was  so  long  past  and  gone,  tears  sprang  to  my  eyes  under  a  vague 
sense  of  loss,  and  of  wrong  that  had  been  done  to  my  youth. 

If  any  remembrance  of  my  childhood  comes  to  me  pleasantly,  if 
I  look  back  upon  that  time,  which  should  be  full  of  joyful  memories, 
with  one  emotion  of  tenderness  and  delight,  that  remembrance  is  of 
Cecil.  All  the  joy  of  our  gloomy  home  he  brought  into  it.  Mother 
softened  her  rather  harsh  tones  to  him,  and  in  his  sunshiny  presence 
the  groans  of  Mrs.  Dagget  seemed  to  be  less  profound,  and  partake 
more  of  the  pensive  nature  of  sighs. 

So  life  ran  along  till  Cecil  was  seventeen,  and  I  was  twenty,  and 
loving  him  as  I  did,  I  don't  know  whether  I  was  most  glad  or  sorry 
when  news  came  from  our  rich  uncle  in  Boston,  offering  him  a  place 
in  his  counting-room.  This  uncle,  Reginald  Tail,  was  still  quite  young, 
unmarried,  and  very  wealthy.  And  Cecil  was  delighted  to  go,  for  he 
thought  that  would  be  the  road  to  independence,  to  the  home  I  was 
to  share ;  for  in  all  his  hopeful,  loving  plans  for  the  future,  I  was 
included.  Whatever  regret  I  felt  was  all  smothered  in  my  own 
breast,  for  I,  too,  thought  that  it  was  an  opening  into  the  grand 
future  I  had  always  pictured  for  my  darling.  So  he  went,  hopeful 
and  happy,  and  how  did  I  know  he  had  gone  into  temptation  ? 

Cecil  left  us  in  the  autumn,  and  it  seemed,  that  long,  long  winter, 
that  I  should  have  died,  had  it  not  been  for  his  long,  bright,  loving 
letters,  which  I  got  two  or  three  times  a  week.  Mrs.  Dagget  used  to 
groan  over  the  frequency  of  the  letters,  and  the  expense  it  involved ; 
and  my  step-mother,  a  little  jealous,  I  am  afraid,  of  the  affection  he 
showed  so  plainly  for  me,  (although  he  never  forgot  to  send  her 
some  kind  message,)  would  darkly  prophesy  that  she  might  slave 


CECIL    VAIL.  181 

herself  to  death  for  some  folks,  and  that  was  all  the  thanks  she 
would  get. 

And  Mrs.  Dagget  would  add,  with  a  groan :  — 

"  I  shan't  be  here  long,  to  see  it  go  on." 

What  the  "  it "  was  to  which  she  referred,  she  never  told,  but 
constantly  did  she  call  our  attention  to  the  fact  that  "it  was'goin* 
on,"  and  in  a  reproachful  demeanor  toward  me,  she  intimated  that  I 
was  responsible  for  "  its  goin'  on/'  There  were  days  when  her  very 
clothing  seemed  to  upbraid  me;  her  cap-strings  flouted  mournfully, 
her  apron-strings  hung  down  reproachfully  and  rebukingly,  and  seemed 
mutely  to  ask  me,  more  in  a  spirit  of  sorrow  than  anger,  "  are  you 
not  the  cause  of  its  goin'  on  ? " 

But  this  was  in  her  better-natured  moods.  There  were  times 
when  her  cap-border  reviled  me,  her  apron-strings  menaced  me.  In 
these  times  her  doom  was  prophesied,  not  as  a  drooping  oracle,  but  as 
an  avenger.  "Then  you  will  see  what  I  have  went  through,  with 
this  goneness  at  the  stummuck,  when  I  am  a  layin'  in  the  cold, 
cold  ground.  Mebby  you  will  have  a  realizin'  sense  of  what  you 
have  lost,  mebby  you  will  have  reflections." 

I  think  now,  that  it  was  a  hereditary  trait  in  the  Dagget  family 
to  foretell  their  approaching  dissolution,  although  my  step-mother's 
doom  was  always  foretold  to  us  by  her,  as  being  caused  by  her  labor 
for  us. 

We  did  not  keep  any  servant,  but  our  work  was  light,  and  I  was 
more  than  willing  to  do  my  share  of  it ;  but  I  am  certain  that  very 
trw  days  passed,  and  no  washing,  or  baking,  or  sweeping  day,  without 
her  talking  a  great  deal,  and  prophesying  that  she  should  kill  her- 
self, just  as  sure  as  she  was  alive  then,  working  and  slaving  for  us 
that  day. 

And  then  she  would  often  add,  with  an  upbraiding  glance  at  me, 
as  if  I  were  the  main  cause  of  her  doom,  that  then  she  should  be 


182  CECIL  VAIL. 

out  of  the  way,  and  she  supposed  I  would  be  glad  of  it,  much  as  she 
had  always  done  for  me. 

I  would  assure  her  often,  with  tears  in  my  eyes,  that  she  did  me 
an  injustice,  that  I  knew  very  well  how  much  she  had  done  for  us, 
and  that  I  was  willing,  and  wanted  to  assist  and  help  her  all  I  could, 
if  she  would  only  let  me,  and  I  would  beg  of  her  not  to  speak  in 
that  way. 

Sometimes  my  distressful  tone  would  seem  to  touch  her,  for  she 
would  say  in  a  softer  and  more  melancholy  manner :  She  guessed  it 
would  be  better  if  she  was  out  of  the  way,  and  mother,  too. 

And  Mrs.  Dagget  never  failed  to  add  the  melancholy  prediction, 
that  "I  shan't  be  here  long,  to  see  it  go  on,  for  my  stummuck  feels 
goner  and  goner  every  day." 

I  suppose  it  was  because  I  was  foolishly  sensitive,  that  I  felt  all 
this  so  deeply,  and  it  made  me  so  unhappy.  But  one  cannot  change 
their  nature,  and  I  don't  really  know  how  I  could  help  it — that 
while  a  smile  or  a  pleasant  word  would  make  me  happy  for  a  day, 
a  frown  or  a  reproachful  word  would  cut  to  my  heart  like  a  knife. 
It  is  with  an  odd  feeling  of  pity  for  myself  that  I  look  back,  and 
remember  how  miserable  and  lonely  their  words  would  make  me 
through  the  long,  long  days.  How  my  heart  would  sink  down  so  low 
that  it  seemed  as  if  it  would  never  be  lighter  again ;  yet  it  always 
was  when  I  got  a  letter  from  Cecil. 

As  I  said,  it  seemed  as  if  I  lived  upon  his  letters ;  but  with  the 
coming  of  spring,  an  ambition  awoke  within  me.  I  had  been  think- 
ing, ever  since  Cecil  went  away,  how  delightful  it  would  be  if  I 
could  earn  something  to  give  him  when  he  went  into  business  for 
himself.  What  a  help  a  few  hundred  dollars  would  be!  I  pondered 
many  impossible  plans,  and  finally  I  thought  of  teaching  school,  and  I 
applied  by  letter  for  a  school  about  thirty  miles  away.  A  lady  who 
was  visiting  one  of  our  neighbors,  happened  to  mention  it  in  my 


CECIL  VAIL.  183 

presence,  that  the  school  teacher  at  Randolph,  who  had  taught  there 
for  years,  had  died,  and  no  one  had  been  found  to  fill  her  place. 

To  one  of  my  timid  nature,  the  idea  of  going  out  into  the  great 
world  alone,  was  full  of  terror.  But  it  was  for  Cecil,  and  that  made 
it  endurable.  There  is  no  task-master  like  love,  and  there  is  no  such 
willing  slavery.  I  was  not  needed  at  home,  and  I  would  at  least 
make  the  effort.  I  thought  I  would  say  nothing  to  anyone  about  it 
until  I  was  certain  I  could  have  the  school,  and  one  cold,  rainy  even- 
ing in  April  my  fate  came  to  me. 

I  well  recollect  what  a  cold  drizzling  rain  was  falling  outside, 
and  how  a  colder,  more  depressing  atmosphere  seemed  to  enwrap  us 
indoors,  as  we  sat  at  the  tea-table.  I  could  not  eat  much,  for  it 
seemed  as  if  I  had  never  been  so  homesick  for  Cecil  as  I  had  been 
all  day;  and  at  the  table,  his  empty  place,  opposite,  intensified  this 
feeling,  so  it  was  with  difficulty  that  I  kept  back  my  tears. 

There  was  not  much  conversation  at  the  table.  Only  Mrs.  Dagget, 
who  had  been  watching  the  dismal  fall  of  the  rain  against  the  win- 
dows, more  dismal  in  the  growing  gray  of  the  twilight,  remarked 
that  "It  would  be  a  bad  time  for  a  funeral." 

Before  her  daughter  could  reply  to  her,  a  neighbor  rapped  at  the 
door,  and  placed  a  letter  in  my  hands.  It  contained  a  favorable 
answer  to  my  application  for  the  school,  and  wanted  me  to  come  as 
soon  as  possible.  And  now,  while  a  new  and  untried  life  was  open- 
ing before  me,  I  did  not  expect  any  sympathy,  or  encouragement,  or 
co-operation ;  but  I  asked  my  step-mother  if  she  was  willing  I  should 
go.  She  replied  :  - 

"  I  don't  know  as  it  makes  much  difference  to  me  where  you  go, 
you'll  probably  be  back  on  my  hands  before  many  weeks  are  out." 

Mrs.  Dagget  was  lighting  her  pipe,  and  just  at  this  moment  a 
small  coal  of  fire  fell  upon  her  apron.  She  raised  her  eyes  reproach- 
fully to  my  face,  and  said  :  — 


184 


CECIL   VAIL. 


"  Can't  you  put  me  out  ? " 

I  brushed  off  the  coal  at  once,  leaving  no  further  damage  than  a 
very  small  hole  in  her  gingham  apron ;  but  she  said  to  me,  in  a  tone 
of  deep  rebuke :  — 

"  You  no  need  to  have  been  so  afraid  of  puttin'  me  out.  Mebby 
you  would  like  some  of  my  clothes  to  wear  off  to  your  school  teachin'. 
But  you  needn't  be  afraid ;  they  will  all  fall  to  you  and  Melissa  before 
long,  without  your  settin'  of  me  afire,  and  not  puttin'  of  me  out." 


PUTTIN'  HER  OUT. 

So,  with  what  encouragement  and  inspiration  I  could  glean  from 
these,  and  similar  words,  I  went  out  into  the  world  which  seemed  so 
large  and  dreadful  to  me. 

******** 

In  two  weeks  time  I  commenced  my  duties  as  teacher.  My  pupils 
were  quite  young,  and  they  seemed  to  like  me,  and  I  soon  became 
quite  fond  of  them.  And  instead  of  its  being  a  terrible  task  I  had 


CECIL  VAIL. 


185 


undertaken,  I  even  began  to  love  my  work,  and  I  spent  many  happy 
hours  in  the  little  white  school-house,  nestling  in  rural  quiet. 

I  found  a  home  in  the  family  of  the  trustee,  Mr.  Cook.  They  lived 
in  a  pleasant,  old-fashioned  farm-house,  whose  low  walls,  and  broad 
porches,  seemed  to  be  the  very  abode  of  neatness,  peace,  and  comfort. 

The  large  front 
yard  was  shaded  by 
tall  maples,  but  there 
was  many  a  sunny  spot 
where  white  and  red 
roses  lifted  their  sweet 
faces  to  the  day.  And 
the  tall  lilac  and  snow- 
ball bushes  reached  up 
so  high  that  they  looked 
into  the  windows  of  my 
pleasant  little  chamber. 

And,  much  to  my 
delight,  a  robin  had 
,  built  her  nest  on  one  of 
the  topmost  branches 
of  a  white  lilac  bush, 
and  I  could  sit  in  my 
window  and  look  direct- 
ly down  into  its  nest, 
and  behold  the  fears  of 

the  tender  and  faithful  mother-bird,  and  note  the  attentions  of  the  gal- 
lant lover  husband,  who  was  very  gentle  and  pleasant  to  his  brown, 
happy  little  mate,  and  yet  who  seemed  to  enjoy  himself  in  a  gay, 
masculine  way  when  he  was  on  the  wing. 

Many  happy,  dreamy  hours  did  I  spend  in  that   pleasant  western 


HAPPY   MOMENTS. 


186 


CECIL  VAIL. 


window,  with  perfume  and  verdure  about  me — and  looking  into  the 
western  skies,  dreaming  the  dreams  of  youth.  The  wonderful,  glowing 
dreams  that  cast  a  rosy  shadow  on  the  grayest  sky  when  we  are  only 
twenty-one. 

The  family  of  Mr.  Cook  consisted  of  himself,  wife,  little  boy,  and 
hired  man,  Aspire  Dingman.  The  little  boy's  name  was  put  down  in 
the  Bible,  William  Henry  Harrison,  but  his  father  always  called  him 
Tippecanoe ;  the  rest  of  the  family  called  him  Tip. 

Tip,  aged  about  six,  or  six 
and  a  half,  was  in  a  state  of 
chronic  disaffection  with  the 
world.  Where  he  imbibed  such 
gloomy  views  of  life  I  know  not, 
for  his  father  was  one  of  the  hap- 
piest, as  well  as  the  best  of  men ; 
and  his  mother  was  altogether 
too  energetic  and  hard-working 
to  find  any  time  to  be  gloomy. 
But  Tip  was  misanthropic.  His 
food  never  suited  him,  nor  his 
apparel ;  and  above  all  his  other 
clothing,  he  had  a  fur  cap,  that 


TIPPECANOE. 


filled  him  with  the  most  morbid 
and  unhealthy  emotions.  The  wearing  of  this  cap  was  a  constant 
source  of  disagreement  between  him  and  his  mother.  He  would,  in 
hopes  of  its  annihilation,  leave  it  exposed  to  all  sorts  of  dangers, 
from  which  his  mother  would  always  appear  to  rescue  it.  He  would 
misuse  it  when  out  of  her  sight,  but  not  fatally,  owing  to  filial  appre- 
hensions. But  it  seemed  gifted  with  perpetual  youth,  or  rather  perpet- 
ual middle-age,  for  it  had  passed  its  first  bloom  when  it  fell  to  him 
from  a  richer  relative  with  a  larger  head. 


CECIL  VAIL. 


187 


His  mother  had  contracted  it  in  some  way,  so  it  fitted  him  tolerably 
well,  if  he  would  wear  it  properly.  But  though  his  mother  was  trium- 
phant in  making  him  wear  it,  in 
one  thing  he  was  firm  to  the  last ; 
let  her  put  it  on  ever  so  good, 
he  would  never  let  it  remain  as 
she  placed  it ;  but  he  would  take 
it  off  and  drag  it  firmly  and  defi- 
antly on  to  the  backside  of  his 
head,  so  it  would  cover  the  most 
of  his  neck  at  the  back,  and  in 
front  leave  about  an  inch  of  his 
pure  white  hair  out  in  sight,  like 
the  frill  of  an  old  woman's  cap. 

Aspire  Dingman,  the  hired 
man,  was  tall,  and  exceedingly 
loose-jointed,  and  he  bent  slightly 
forward  in  walking.  His  hair 
and  complexion  were  what  is 
called  sandy,  and  his  large,  wa- 
tery-looking blue  eyes  stood  out 
from  his  face  as  if  in  search  of 
something  they  could  not  find. 

He  was  always  dressed  in  a 
suit  of  light-brown  tweed,  and  I 
should  judge  that  he  had  grown 
rapidly,  for  his  pantaloons  were 
too  short  for  him,  even  his  best 
ones,  which  he  only  wore  Sun- 
days, and  which  were  a  large  plaid, 
blue  and  green.  His  big  leather  ASIMKK  DJSGMAN 


188  CECIL   VAIL. 

shoes  were  separated  even  from  these  by  a  wide  stripe  of  blue  stocking, 
like  two  desert  islands  divided  from  the  mainland  by  a  strip  of  the 
deep  blue  sea.  And  his  large  red  hands  were  so  far  from  the  bottom 
of  his  coat-sleeves  that  they  looked  lonely,  and  utterly  hopeless  of 
ever  getting  into  any  situation  where  they  could  enjoy  repose.  He  was 
exceedingly  faithful  in  his  work,  but  I  had  been  there  three  weeks  be- 
fore I  discovered  that  he  was  a  poet.  Several  times  during  that  period, 
I  heard  Mrs.  Cook  speak  in  tones  of  withering  contempt  of  "  littery 
people,"  and  she  said  it  so  directly  at  Aspire,  that  I  could  not  help 
being  aware  that  she  meant  him.  But  I  thought,  perhaps,  that  he 
whittled  too  much  on  the  floor,  or  left  things  about,  and  by  that  she 
meant  "  littery." 

But  one  morning,  during  the  third  week  of  my  stay  there,  Mrs. 
Cook  remarked  at  the  breakfast  table  that,  "  if  there  is  any  class  of 
people  I  can't  bear,  it  is  littery  folks !  " 

She  said  this  with  a  glance  of  such  unutterable  contempt  at 
Aspire,  (who  always  sat  at  the  table  with  the  family,)  that  it  made 
his  mouth  open,  and  his  eyes  stand  out  further  than  ever  with  terror 
and  deprecation. 

I  went  to  my  room  after  breakfast  and  was  writing  a  letter  to 
Cecil,  when  Tip  appeared  at  the  door  with  his  gloomy  brow  lit  with 
a  gleam  of  exultation,  as  he  asked  me,  in  mysterious  tones,  to  "  come 
down  stairs  a  minute." 

He  seemed  so  urgent  about  it,  that  I  put  away  my  pen  at  once, 
and  followed  him  down  into  the  sitting-room,  and  out  on  to  the  piazza. 
There  had  been  a  heavy  fall  of  rain  during  the  night,  and  Tip  pointed 
silently  to  a  small  dark  object,  lying  soaked  and  battered  on  the 
grass.  It  was  the  cap. 

"  I  guess  it  is  done  for  now ! "  he  cried  exultingly.  But  at  this 
unlucky  moment  his  mother  appeared,  and  taking  Tip  and  the  cap 
into  the  kitchen,  she  subjected  them  both  to  a  warming  and  purify- 


CECIL  VAIL.  189 

ing  process,  which,  whatever  it  did  to  Tip,  made  the  cap  look  better 
and  more  durable  than  ever. 

I  had  just  turned  to  go  in  myself,  when  Aspire  Dingman  appeared 
suddenly  at  my  side,  and  asked  me  :  — 

u  Do  you  think  there  is  any  harm  in  folk's  writin'  poetry  for 
their  own  devotion  ?  " 

I  thought  he  meant  psalms,  and  hymns,  and  spiritual  songs ;  but 
he  added,  immediately,  looking  over  his  shoulder,  in  the  direction  of 
the  kitchen,  from  which  he  could  hear  Mrs.  Cook's  voice  as  she  cor- 
rected Tip,  and  also  Tip's  wails :  — 

"  She  is  awful  sot  aginst  writin'  poetry ;  but  I  don't  see  what 
hurt  there  is  in  it,  if  you  don't  print  any  of  it;  but  do  it  jist  for 
your  own  devotion." 

I  told  him  I  could  see  no  possible  harm  in  any  one's  diverting 
themselves  in  any  innocent  manner.  He  looked  so  depressed  and 
unhappy,  that  I  could  not  help  giving  him  this  slight  consolation. 
And,  as  I  said  it,  his  face  lighted  up  with  satisfaction,  and  from  that 
hour  he  commenced  giving  me,  in  the  most  secret  and  mysterious 
manner,  little  slips  of  paper  covered  with  what  he  called  poetry.  They 
were  usually  written  on  square  pieces  of  paper,  bordered  round  the 
edge  with  a  running  vine,  made  by  pen  with  great  labor,  in  imitation 
I  suppose  of  funeral  odes,  which  I  have  seen  printed  at  the  expense 
of  surviving  relatives,  and  at  their  pecuniary  disadvantage. 

There  was  one  —  "Owed  to  Shakespeare,''  so  long,  that  you  might 
imagine  that  he  had  had  a  long  account  running  with  the  noble  trage- 
dian, and  had  come  out  largely  in  his  debt.  Then  there  were  "Oweds 
to  Spring,  to  Summer,  to  Hope,  Memory,  Liberty,"  and  other  single 
females,  supposed  to  be  free  to  receive  the  addresses  of  manly  poots. 
As  he  delivered  them  to  me  he  would  shut  the  door,  and  stand  with  his 
back  against  it,  and  with  a  look  upon  his  face  as  if  Mrs.  Cook  wore 
liable  to  become,  at  any  moment,  an  incorporeal  substance  and  come 


190 


CECIL  VAIL. 


into  our  presence  through  the  keyhole.  And  accompanying  each  poem 
was  a  request,  either  verbal  or  written,  "  To  burn  it  in  the  candle  as 
soon  as  read." 

I  had  often  read  of  the  sufferings  poets  have  endured  from  an 
unsympathizing  world ;  but  I  can  truly  say,  that  the  sufferings  of 
Aspire  and  the  unappreciation  of  Mrs.  Cook  exceeded  anything  I  had 
supposed  possible.  And  I  must  have  shown  my  pity  in  my  counte- 


THE  MANUSCRIPTS. 

nance,  for  he  seemed  deeply  affected  by  it ;  and  I  thought  then,  and  I 
think  still,  that  it  was  only  gratitude  that  caused  that  stricken  young 
man  to  think  of  me  more  highly  than  I  deserved  or  desired ;  for  one 
evening  (I  had  been  there  then  about  six  weeks),  as  he  handed  me  an 
"  Owed  to  Saffo,"  with  a  secrecy  he  could  not  have  exceeded  had  it  been 
a  deadly  poison  designed  for  the  destruction  of  Mrs.  Cook,  he  said  to 
me,  with  a  face  that  shamed  his  woolen  shirt,  and  that  was  a  warm 
crimson  color : 


CECIL  VAIL. 


191 


"  Polly  Ann  Hawkins  haint  nowhere." 

I  might  have  thought  that  this  unfortunate  girl  had  been  suddenly 
annihilated  had  he  not  immediately  added: 

"  Before  you  came  I  thought  she  was  pretty  neat ;   but,  by  vum, 
she  can't  hold  a  candle  to  you." 

One  pleasant  day  in  July  I  gave  my  pupils  a  half-holiday,  which 
they  much  desired  and  had  earned  by  their  diligence  and  good  behavior. 
And  I  left  the  school-room  at 
noon  amid  acclamations  of  joy 
and  loyalty  many  a  monarch 
might  envy. 

After  dinner  Mrs.  Cook  ask- 
ed me  if  I  didn't  want  to  walk 
down  into  the  wood  pasture  with 
her ;  she  was  going  there  to  pick 
some  berries.  She  said  they 
were  all  going, — Mr.  Cook,  Tip, 
and  Aspire,  and  she  thought  I 
would  be  lonesome  at  the  house 
alone.  I  told  her  I  should  be 
very  glad  to  go. 

The  wood-pasture  was  more 
than  a  mile  away,  and  the  way 
to  it  was  full  of  summer  delights.  The  berry  lot  was  on  the  edge  of  the 
wood-land ;  and,  arrived  there,  I  found  so  many  beauties  of  ferns  and 
mosses,  and  I  loitered  so  dreamily  over  them,  that,  when  Mrs.  Cook 
appeared  before  me  with  her  large  pail  full,  I  had  not  gotten  my  little 
two-quart  dinner-pail  a  quarter-full.  And  as  1  looked  at  her  brimming 
five-quart  pail  and  her  honest  face  dripping  with  perspiration,  the  noble 
ambition  seized  me  on  the  spot  to  fill  my  little  pail,  or  perish  in  the 
attempt. 


POLLY  ANN   HAWKINS. 


192 


CECIL  VAIL. 


So  I  told  Mrs.  Cook,  who  seemed  anxious  to  go  to  the  house,  as  it 
was  nearly  supper-time,  that  they  might  all  leave  me,  and  after  I  filled 
my  pail  I  would  follow  them.  But  after  they  all  went  away,  the  cool- 
ness and  stillness  was  so  delightful,  and  the  golden  sunlight  glinting 
through  the  tree-tops  was  so  delicious,  that  I  sat  down  on  a  fallen  tree 

for  a  while  to  enjoy  it ;  but 
the  approaching  sunset  warn- 
ed me  that  if  I  mastered  my 
ambition,  I  must  be  alert. 

I  found  a  clump  of 
bushes  bending  down  with 
the  luscious  fruit,  and  had 
gotten  my  pail  nearly  full, 
and  was  reaching  up  for  the 
cluster  of  larger  ones,  that  I 
thought  would  look  so  well 
on  the  top  as  I  carried  it  in, 
when  I  was  startled  by  a 
voice  close  by  my  side. 

"  Miss  Nora,  I  have 
come  a  purpose." 

I  turned,  almost  spilling 
my  berries  in  my  fright. 

"  Aspire  Dingman  !  how 
you  frightened  me !  What 
ever  brought  you  down  here 
again  ?  " 

He  was  arrayed  in  his  very  best  clothes,  the  blue  and  green  panta- 
loons, the  tweed  coat,  the  flaming  red  neck-tie.  The  haste  to  get 
through  with  his  chores,  and  return  in  time,  which  seemed  to  me  an 
incredible  feat,  or  some  emotion  that  was  struggling  in  his  breast,  ren- 


I   COME   A   PURPOSE. 


CECIL  VAIL.  193 

dered  his  face  of  a  scarlet  hue,  while  his  eyes  had  a  sort  of  a  wild 
look ;  and  never  did  his  hands  seem  so  homeless,  look  so  much  like  two 
red  wanderers  who  would  never  be  at  rest,  as  they  did  when  he  said 
again,  in  answer  to  my  question : 

"  I  come  a  purpose." 

He  seemed  to  have  a  difficulty  in  getting  any  further,  and  I  said : 

"  Come  for  what  purpose  ?  " 

"  I  have  come  clear  down  here,  Miss  Nora,  a  purpose  — " 

Again  his  courage,  or  his  breath,  failed  him ;  and  again  1  inquired, 
encouragingly : 

"  On  purpose  for  what  ?  " 

"A  purpose  to  walk  up  to  the  house  with  you." 

I  diligently  suppressed  any  outward  manifestation  of  annoyance, 
and  answered  pleasantly : 

"It  was  entirely  unnecessary  for  you  to  take  so  much  trouble.  I 
should  not  have  been  at  all  afraid,  although  I  suppose  you  thought  I 
would.  I  think  I  wont  wait  to  finish  filling  my  pail,  it  is  so  nearly  full ; 
but  we  will  return  to  the  house  at  once." 

Then  picking  up  my  hat  and  the  pail,  I  was  just  starting  for  the 
house  when  Aspire  exclaimed  : 

"  Wont  you,  Miss  Nora,  a  goin'  up  to  the  house,  lock  arms 
with  me?" 

"  Don't  let  me  hear  any  more  such  absurd  nonsense,  Aspire," 
said  I,  with  all  the  dignity  I  could  command. 

"  Wont  you  lock  arms  with  me  part  of  the  way  ? "  lie  entreated. 

I  was  about  opening  my  lips  to  rebuke  him  into  something  like 
common  sense,  if  possible,  when  a  glance  at  his  woe-begone,  despairing 
countenance  softened  my  tone. 

"  You  go  on  ahead,  if   you  please ;  you   know  the  way  so  much 
better  than    I   do ;  and   I  will   follow.     I   know  you   can   find   out   a 
better  path  than  I   can." 
13 


194  CECIL  VAIL. 

He  started  immediately ;  but  every  few  steps  he  would  look  back 
over  his  shoulder  at  me,  with  a  glance  indescribable  in  its  mingling 
of  longing,  agony,  and  suspense.  Finally,  he  stopped  short,  and  turned 
round  and  faced  me. 

"  Wont  you  lock  arms  with  me  agoin'  through  the  stunny  pasture  ? 
It  is  awful  hard  goin'  there  over  the  stuns.  Say,  wont  you  lock  arms 
with  me  there  ?  " 

"Mr,  Dingman!"  I  commenced,  in  dignified  tones  — 

"Wont  you  lock  arms  with  me  a  rod  or  so?" 

"  Aspire  Dingman,  if  you  don't  go  on  and  lead  the  way,  I  shall 
certainly  go  on  first  myself,  and  if  you  don't  want  to  seriously  dis- 
please me,  you  will  cease  talking  so  absurdly." 

He  evidently  discerned  that  I  was  in  earnest,  and  he  strode  silently 
on,  his  long,  lanky  figure  bending  slightly  forward ;  but,  ever  and  anon, 
during  our  entire  walk,  he  would  look  over  his  shoulder  at  me,  with 
a  longing,  unsatisfied  look  in  his  blue,  watery  eyes,  as  if,  although  he 
suppressed  any  active  outward  tokens  of  it,  the  desire  was  still  rani- 
pant  in  his  heart  to  "lock  arms"  with  me. 

As  we  reached  the  door,  he  hastily  thrust  a  paper  in  my  hand, 
and  disappeared,  like  a  gaily-attired  phantom,  in  the  direction  of  the 
barn.  I  opened  the  paper  as  I  stood  there  on  the  piazza.  It  was  an 
"  Owed  to  Miss  Nora,"  and  the  fourteen  verses  following  were  worthy 
companions  of  the  first,  in  merit  and  sentiment. 

"  I  cannot  tell  thee  what  I  knew. 
To  me  such  beauty  lies 
In  your  dark  hair,  I  call  it  a  auburn  hair 
Your  forward,  and  your  eyes. 
And  when  you  raise  them  last-named  on  me 
I  feel  perfectly  lost  and  dull, 
The  admiration  I  feel  for  thee 
Is  so  completely  inexpressible." 


CECIL  VAIL.  195 

Below  was   a  request   that   I    would    "burn    them    iu  a  candle." 

I  complied  with  the  spirit  of  the  request  by  putting  them  in  the 

stove.     On  the  occasion  of  Aspire's  handing  me  his  next  poem  which 

was  addressed  to  "  Miss  Nora,"  and  exceeded  the  former  in  sentiment, 

I  considered  it  to  be  my  duty  to  talk  to  him  kindly,  but  firmly. 

He  disappeared  so  suddenly,  like  a  tweed   phantom,  while  I  was 


yet  speaking  to  him,  that  I  could  not  tell 
how  he  was  affected ;  but  as  I  still  held 
it  in  my  hand,  he  appeared  again  at  my 
side,  and  asked  me,  in  an  agitated  tone  :  —  A  FRIENDLY  ACT. 

"Won't  you  burn  it  in  a  candle?"  adding  in  a  despondent  way, 
"as  a  friend?"  "Will  you  burn  it  as  a  friend?" 

And  from  this  time,  he  always  added  this  to  his  requests.  And 
once  on  a  cool  day,  he  brought  some  wood  into  the  room  where  I  was 
sewing,  and  asked  me  if  he  should  build  a  fire  for  me  as  a  "  friend  ? " 


196  CECIL  VAIL. 

On  my  return  from  school  one  day  about  the  middle  of  the  term, 
Mrs.  Cook  invited  me  to  go  with  her  and  her  husband  to  Randolph 
that  evening,  to  attend  a  temperance  lecture.  I  accepted  it  very  will- 
ingly. It  was  early  when  we  arrived  at  the  lecture-room,  and  I  told 
Mrs.  Cook  that  I  would  just  step  into  the  post-office.  And  with  many 
admonitions  to  "  come  right  back,"  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cook  entered. 

I  certainly  intended  to  go  right  back,  but  I  found  a  letter  from 
Cecil,  and  what  was  the  temperance  lecture,  what  was  all  the  world 
to  me  ?  As  I  read  the  warm  words  that  came  so  directly  from  his 
heart  to  my  own,  I  read  in  them  only  a  gay  young  spirit,  that  was 
finding  the  great  world  a  delightful  place ;  but  I  did  not  read  any- 
thing that  told  me  that  that  delightful  world  was  a  dangerous  one. 
for  one  of  his  generous,  impulsive  temperament.  He  spoke  of  his 
uncle  Reginald  as  a  ucool  old  fellow,  who  thinks  himself  one  of  the 
greatest  of  men,  and  who  means  to  enjoy  the  world  while  he  lives  in 
it,  and  thinks  his  example  is  the  only  living  one  worth  following/' 

I  never  thought  that  what  to  one  of  uncle's  cool  temperament, 
might  be  indulged  in  with  comparative  safety,  might  be  fatal  to  one 
like  Cecil.  I  laughed  over  his  letter,  and  cried  over  it,  for  at  the 
last  he  wrote  :  — 

"I  am  working,  working  with  all  my  strength,  Nora.  Of  course 
I  go  into  society  a  good  deal,  for  Boston  is  a  gay  place,  and  uncle 
insists  upon  my  doing  like  other  young  fellows  of  my  age  and  station, 
for  my  being  his  nephew  is  in  his  eyes  a  greater  merit  than  the 
cross  of  the  legion  of  Honor.  And  if  I  refuse  to  go  where  he  tells 
me,  and  do  as  they  do  when  we  meet,  it  seems  to  be  a  sort  of  a 
reproach  to  the  life  he  leads,  which  I  must  confess,  is  rather  of  a 
gay  one.  And  so  that  makes  it  impossible,  dear,  for  me  to  do  exactly 
as  we  talked  about.  I  told  uncle  what  you  said.  Your  wanting  me 
to  study  evenings  as  much  as  T  could,  and  about  shunning  the  first 
approach  of  temptation,  and  above  all  things,  to  shun  wine-parties. 


CECIL  VAIL.  197 

"You  ought  to  have  heard  him  laugh.  Said  lie,  fcl  rather  think 
there  is  no  danger  in  your  going  where  I  take  you.  I  declare,  if 
such  a  thing  were  possible,  I  should  almost  think  that  Nora  was 
ivtlccting  somewhat  on  my  life.'  He  thinks  when  he  goes  West,  the 
p]ast  tips  up.  But  he  is  the  coolest  and  steadiest  old  fellow  going, 
belongs  to  the  church,  and  if  he  should  drink  a  gallon  of  wine,  it 
would  only  make  him  walk  straighter,  and  talk  more  impressively 
about  '  my  position,'  and  '  my  nephew.'  Of  course  I  have  got  to  do 
as  he  says,  and  go  where  he  takes  me,  although  at  first  I  didn't  care 
for  such  gay  doings  at  all,  only  he  made  me  go,  and  now  how  much 
rather  I  would  spend  a  quiet  evening  with  you.  But  I  am  working, 
Nora,  working  with  all  my  might,  and  it  is  all  for  you.  I  am  deter- 
mined to  make  a  position  in  the  world,  to  work  myself  up  to  a 
fortune,  and  a  home  for  you,  my  darling  sister  —  a  home  so  bright  and 
happy,  that  it  shall  atone  for  the  dreary  past." 

When  I  entered  the  lecture-room  it  was  crowded.  The  speaker 
had  the  compliment  of  every  seat  being  full  so  early.  I  leaned  up 
against  a  pillar  near  the  door,  and  was  resigning  myself  to  a  rather 
wearisome  evening,  in  company  with  nearly  a  hundred  fellow-sufferers, 
who  were  standing  about  me,  occupying  nearly  every  available  inch  of 
standing-room,  when  a  good-looking  young  man  carrying  a  child,  with  a 
woman  following  closely  in  his  wake,  came  pushing  through  the  crowd 
toward  the  door. 

As  they  passed  me,  he  looked  down  into  my  face,  and  something 
in  it  seemed  to  awaken  his  generosity  and  nobler  feelings,  for  he 
asked  me  in  a  hearty,  honest  voice,  that  I  knew  came  from  a  good 
heart : — 

"  Don't  you  want  a  seat  ? " 

I  told  him  I  should  certainly  like  one,  but  it  seemed  impossible 
for  me  to  have  one. 

"  Here,  Nance,  you  take  the  little  feller ;  you  shall  have  our  seat. 


198 


CECIL  VAIL. 


You  see,  miss,  we  was  afraid  that  the  baby  was  agoin'  to  have  one, 
that  is  all  that  made  us  leave;  we  hated  to,  for  the  lecture  is  goin' 
to  be  a  peeler!  There  hain't  a  smarter  feller  in  the  country  than 
Dr.  Chester,  nor  a  better  one.  He  lives  in  Boston,  and  you  see  he 
come  here  to  visit  his  uncle,  Judge  Haviland,  and  the  town  invited 
him  to  lecture.  He  is  as  rich  as  a  Jew.  He  lectures  jest  to  do 
good ;  and  that  is  all  he  doctors  for,  too ;  he  no  need  to  lift  his  finger. 


Come  right  along,  miss. 
Nance,  don't  be  nervious ; 
he  won't  have  it  before  I 
get  back." 

This  last  sentence 
was  said  over  his  shoul- 
der to  his  wife,  after  we 

started  up  the  aisle.  He  placed  me  in  an  excellent  seat,  directly 
beneath  the  speaker's  stand.  I  thanked  him  for  his  courtesy,  as  I  took 
my  seat,  to  which  he  leaned  down,  and  replied,  in  a  hoarse  whisper : 

"  I'd  rather  do  it  than  not.     Such   a  sweet,  pretty  face,  to  be  a 
standin'  up  all  night;  I  couldn't  bear  to  see  it.     You  see  we  wouldn't 


GIVING   UP   HIS    SEAT. 


CECIL  VAIL.  199 

have  missed  it  for  nothin'  in  the  world,  only  we  was  so  afraid  the  little 
feller  would  have  it,  right  here  in  meetinV 

How  it  terminated  I  never  knew — whether  the  "  little  feller  "  had 
one  or  not,  nor  what  the  mysterious  thing  was  that  was  depending  over 
the  child's  head.  I  thought,  however,  it  was  a  fit. 

As  the  kind  man  lifted  his  broad,  rosy  honest  face  from  before 
me,  another  face  met  my  eyes,  and,  as  the  clear  eyes  looked  full  into  my 
own,  for  a  moment,  as  I  lifted  them,  I  thought  then,  and  I  think  still, 
that  I  never  saw  a  better  face.  It  was  not  its  beauty,  although  it  pos- 
sessed that ;  but  it  was  something  better  than  beauty,  the  Chevalier 
Bayard  expression,  "  without  fear,  without  reproach."  It  was  an  intel- 
lectual face  in  the  highest  degree,  and  yet  it  was  a  face  that  a  child 
would  trust  instinctively. 

His  lecture  was  something  different  from  what  I  had  ever  hear* I. 
It  was  not  the  squalid,  reeling  drunkard  that  the  speaker  most  con- 
demned ;  it  was  the  moderate  drinker,  the  man  who,  with  a  cooler  tem- 
perament and  more  natural  self-control,  can  drink  with  less  peril  to 
himself,  and  so,  by  his  own  example  of  respectable  vice,  leads  so  many 
of  excitable,  intense  temperaments  down  to  ruin.  He  said  one  of  these 
respectable  drinkers  was  a  greater  curse  to  a  community  than  a  thou- 
sand hopeless  sots  ;  for  they,  in  their  degradation,  were  a  more  terrible 
warning  to  youth  than  the  most  eloquent  sermon  could  be ;  and  this 
respectable  moderate  drinker  was  the  most  insidious  temptation  to  the 
young  that  Satan  could  possibly  throw  in  their  way. 

But,  toward  the  close  of  the  lecture,  he  gave  a  picture  of  a  drunk- 
ard's death,  and  the  heritage  he  left  his  innocent  children  —  the  legacy 
of  undeserved  shame. 

So  held  and  enchained  was  I  by  the  eloquence  and  pathos  of  the 
speaker,  that  I  did  not  realize  that  tears  were  flowing  down  my  face 
till  I  met  the  deep,  compassionate  eyes,  bent  full  and  pityingly  upon  me. 
Then,  in  sudden  recollection  and  shame,  I  bent  my  head  down  upon  the 


200  CECIL  VAIL. 

seat  in  front  of  me,  and  sobbed  like  the  baby  that  I  was.  But  so  many 
memories  came  to  me  —  my  father's  grave,  the  mockery  of  the  village 
children,  Cecil's  distress,  our  gloomy  home. 

When  I  raised  my  face  again,  attracted  by  the  strange  magnetism 
of  a  glance,  it  was  only  to  meet  the  earnest  penetrating  gaze  of  the  lec- 
turer, as  he  took  his  seat,  for  the  lecture  was  finished. 

The  temperance  lecture  was  the  engrossing  topic  of  conversation 
for  weeks.  The  handsome  face,  the  eloquence,  the  pathetic  power  of 
the  speaker  was  the  one  subject  of  interest.  Mrs.  Cook  said,  "  It  did 
beat  all "  how  indifferent  I  was  about  it ;  but  Mrs.  Cook  was  mistaken. 
*I  did  not  forget  it,  nor  him. 

Finally  time,  that  waits  for  no  one,  brought  the  last  day  of  my 
school;  and  though  my  life  at  Randolph  had  not  been  altogether 
pleasant,  still  I  looked  forward  with  dread  to  the  time  when  I  should 
leave  for  home — for  home  ;  and  it  seems  dreadful  to  speak  so  about 
home;  but  it  seemed  more  dreary  and  dreadful  still. 

It  was  a  very  pleasant  morning,  and  Aspire,  who  had  been  to  the 
post-office  early  in  the  morning,  had  brought  me  a  letter.  It  was  from 
Cecil ;  and  I  seized  it,  and  ran  away  to  my  own  room  to  read  it.  It 
was  filled,  as  usual,  with  his  warm,  loving  words;  and  then  followed 
the  mention  of  a  name,  that  made  my  cheeks  turn  rosy  red,  even  in  the 
unbroken  seclusion  of  my  chamber. 

He  had  found  a  new  friend,  a  Dr.  Chester.  That  is,  he  had  known 
him  ever  since  he  had  been  in  Boston ;  but  at  first  the  doctor  had 
seemed  not  over  cordial  to  his  uncle  or  him.  But  his  uncle  had  always 
treated  the  doctor  with  great  respect,  for  he  was  one  of  the  richest  men 
in  Boston,  as  well  as  one  of  th6  best,  the  most  useful. 

"  But,  of  late,"  wrote  Cecil,  "  in  fact,  to  be  exact,  ever  since  his 
visit  to  Randolph,  Dr.  Chester  has  shown  me  so  many  kindnesses  and 
courtesies,  that  I  cannot  think  they  are  for  my  own  sake,  but  for  the 
sake  of  my  hidden  princess,  my  fair  Lady  Nora.  He  told  me  that 


CECIL  VAIL.  201 

he  saw  you  there.  And  I  shall  not  run  the  risk  of  spoiling  you  by 
telling  you  what  lie  said  about  you,  or  what /said  to  him  about  you. 

"  He  has  been  so  very  good  to  me  that  I  thought  I  ought  to  add  to 
his  happiness  in  some  way  ;  and  so  yesterday,  when  we  were  speaking 
about  you — for  whenever  we  are  alone  he  invariably  brings  the  conver- 
sation around  to  you  —  I  told  him  that  my  uncle  was  going  to  invite  you 
to  Boston  for  the  winter.  And  you  will  come,  wont  you,  darling  ? 
You  will  break  my  heart  if  you  refuse. 

"  But,  as  I  was  saying,  when  I  told  Dr.  Chester  that  you  would 
probably  spend  the  winter  in  Boston,  a  look  of  such  glorified  content 
swept  over  his  face,  that  it  was  absolutely  radiant. 

"  But,  joking  aside,  I  am  counting  the  days  until  winter ;  for  then 
I  shall  see  you.  If  you  -cannot  come  here,  I  shall  go  where  you  are. 
But  I  think  if  you  were  here  all  the  winter  it  would  be  so  much  better 
every  way ;  for  then  I  should  stay  at  home  evenings  with  you,  or  go 
out  with  you,  and  not  go  to  all  these  gay  parties,  that  are  very  fascin- 
ating, but  I  know  are  not  the  best  thing  for  me." 

The  letter  was  very  long,  as  all  his  letters  were,  and,  like  them  all, 
a  delight  to  my  soul.  And,  above  all  the  letters  he  had  ever  written  to 
me,  this  one  filled  me  with  a  strange  unreasoning  bliss,  the  cause  of 
which  I  did  not  try  to  explain  to  myself. 

But,  as  I  went  down  stairs,  ready  for  school,  Mrs.  Cook  observed 
that,  she  guessed  I  was  glad  it  was  my  last  day,  for  she  hadn't  seen 
me  look  so  bright  since  I  had  been  there. 

As  we  drew  near  the  school-house,  Tip,  who  was  in  his  most 
dejected  mood,  took  hold  of  my  arm,  and  shook  it  slightly,  complaining 
that  he  couldn't  get  my  attention.  Said  he : 

"  I  have  asked  you  a  question  more'n  twenty  times,  and  you  haint 
never  answered  me,  nor  nothin'.  I  never  seen  you  act  so  kinder 

)US." 

I  am  afraid  I  blushed,  even  before  little  Tip.     I  know  I  hastened  to 


202  CECIL  VAIL. 

give  him  due  attention,  and  asked  him  at  once  to  repeat  his  ques- 
tion. 

"Wall,"  said  he,  "do  you  think  I  shall  out-live  mother?" 

I  said  something  about  the  uncertainty  of  life. 

"  Wall,  sposen  I  live  to  be  eighty,  or  so  ?" 

I  told  him  his  mother  couldn't  be  expected  to  live  to  see  him 
eighty. 

As  I  said  this,  he  set  his  cap  firmly  on  to  the  back  of  his  head, 
and  said,  in  a  satisfied  tone : 

"There  is  one  thing  certain,  I  shall  have  to  have  a  new  hat  then, 
for  there  can't  be  a  mourning  weed  fixed  on  to  this  cap,  no  how." 

Tip  went  home  for  his  dinner,  and  did  not  appear  in  the  afternoon. 
And  when  I  went  home  at  night  I  found  Mrs.  Cook  in  a  state  of  deep 
anxiety.  Tip  had  not  been  seen  since  noon,  and  his  mother,  with  a 
weakness  I  would  have  believed  impossible  to  her  sensible  nature,  was 
treasuring  up,  to  her  grief,  words  Tip  had  uttered  on  his  return 
home. 

Some  boy  had  reviled  the  hated  cap  more  than  common,  and  life 
was  a  burden,  he  said.  He  shouldn't  stand  it  so  long,  and  she'd  find 
out  that  he  wouldn't,  and  she'd  be  sorry,  when  it  was  too  late,  that 
she  made  him  wear  it. 

There  were  tears  in  Mrs.  Cook's  eyes,  as  she  related  these  melan- 
choly remarks.  And  when  Aspire  came  in  to  supper,  and  said  he  saw 
Tip,  early  in  the  afternoon,  going  toward  the  creek,  her  agony  was 
intense.  Mr.  Cook  made  the  sensible  and  practical  suggestion  that 
"  he  has  gone  a  fishing." 

"  No !  Something  had  happened  to  William  Henry.  She  felt  it  in 
her  bones." 

The  fact  of  her  calling  him  William  Henry  impressed  me,  too,  with 
a  sense  of  his  danger ;  for  it  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  heard  him 
called  by  that  name. 


CECIL  VAIL. 


203 


Aspire,  always  fidelity  and  goodness  personified,  took  his  hat 
silently  from  the  nail,  and  started  in  the  direction  of  the  creek.  In  a 
few  minutes  he  was  seen  coming  through  the  orchard  with  Tip  in  his 
arms.  We  all  rushed  out  into  the  porch  to  greet  them.  Mr.  Cook  was 
right.  Tip's  feelings  had  been  too  outraged  by  the  school-boys  to  per- 
mit of  his  meeting  them  in  the  afternoon ;  so  he  had  been  a  fishing. 


TIP'S   MISFORTUNE. 

But  just  as  Aspire  reached  the  stream,  a  treacherous  log  gave  way,  and 
the  boy  fell  into  the  water.  No  worse  consequences  would  have 
befallen  him,  probably,  had  he  been  alone,  than  a  fright;  but  Mrs. 
Cook  looked  upon  him  as  one  rescued  from  the  jaws  of  death.  And  as 
she  grasped  Aspire  by  the  hand,  which  she  thought  had  saved  her  boy 
from  death,  and  which  she  knew  had  written  such  an  amount  of  poetry 
under  disadvantageous  circumstances,  she  said  : 


204  CECIL  VAIL. 

"  There  needn't  anybody  tell  me  that  littery  folks  haint  good  for 
nothing." 

And  while  Aspire  stood  before  her  like  a  statue  of  bashful  inno- 
cence, in  damp  tweed,  she  looked  about  her  with  an  air,  as  if  she  had 
always  been  convinced  of  the  fact  herself,  but  had  now  got  incontro- 
vertible evidence  to  prove  it  in  the  eyes  of  a  gainsaying  world. 

"  I'd  like  to  have  anybody  tell  me  now  that  littery  folks  haint  good 
as  anybody.  I'd  like  to  see  anybody,  while  you  are  in  my  house,  hin- 
der you  from  bein'  littery." 

I  was  truly  glad  to  know  that  Aspire's  lot  was  to  be  pleasanter  in 
the  future  than  it  had  been  in  the  past.  And  as  he  had  returned  to  his 
devotion  to  Polly  Ann  Hawkins,  which  was  warmly  returned,  life 
seemed  to  stretch  before  him  in  a  pleasant  valley.  His  Parnassus,  at 
first  so  precipitous  and  rocky,  had  dwindled  to  a  flowery  hillock  that  he 
could  climb  with  ease. 

I  knew  he  had  returned  to  his  first  love  from  an  "  Owed  "  he  had 
handed  me  that  morning.  It  was  a  very  long  u  Owed  "  ;  but  one  verse 
of  it  will  give  a  good  idea  of  the  twenty-four  remaining  ones.  It 
was  entitled  u  A  Parting  Owed,"  and  commenced  as  follows : 

I  wish  thee  much  joy,  oh  Miss  Nora, 
Although  I  feel  awful  cast  down  and  sore, 
To  think  of  what  couldn't  never  be, 
Beautifulest  of  wimming,  which  is  thee! 
But  if  such  thing  can  ere  be  did, 
I'll  keep  all  former  affections  and  admirations  hid, 
And  like  a  iron  anchor  stand 
By  she  whose  name  is  Polly  Ann. 
And  nowr,  most  loveliest  mortal  dame, 
With  mournful  joy  I  sign  my  name, 
Till  I  expire, 

Your  friend  ASPIKE 

(DlNGMAN.) 


CECIL  VAIL.  205 

In  a  short  time  Tip  sat  before  the  fire,  swathed  in  blankets,  looking 
like  a  small  mummy  who  had  died  in  despair.  But  once  his  face 
lighted  up  with  joy  and  triumph.  It  was  when  Aspire,  in  relating  for 
the  third  time,  at  the  request  of  the  mother,  his  simple  story  of  the  res- 
cue, mentioned,  incidentally,  that,  as  he  lifted  Tip  from  the  water,  Ihc 
cap  fell  off  and  went  down  stream,  and  was  lost. 

I  was  to  start  for  home  the  next  day,  and  as  then-  was  a  small  rent 
in  the  skirt  of  my  grey  traveling  dress,  I  took  it  out  into  the  pleasant 
western  porch  to  mend  it.  And,  as  I  sat  there  sewing,  I  pictured  my 
return.  I  knew  so  well  that  my  step-mother  would  discover  that  small 
mended  place  the  first  thing ;  and  how  plainly  I  could  hear  her  say  : 

"  Wall,  Nora,  you  have  hetcheled  out  that  dress  pretty  quick ; 
and  your  shoes,  too,  if  there  haint  a  crack  in  one  of  them.  They  ought 
to  have  lasted  you  two  years.." 

And  then  Mrs.  Dagget  would  groan : 

t;  I  shan't  be  here  long  to  see  it  go  on." 

And  then,  in  honor  of  my  return,  for  I  believe  they  were  both 
attached  to  me,  in  their  way,  I  thought,  perhaps,  Mrs.  Dagget  would 
strike  into  the  funeral  anthem  which  she  always  suiisi1  in  her  hnppiVr 
moments.  The  tune  was  wailing  and  despairing  in  the  highest  degree; 
and  in  her  quavering  and  mournful  tones  the  effect  was  depressing  and 
melancholy  beyond  words  to  describe. 

My  friends,  I  am  going 

A  long  and  tedious  journey, 

Never  to  return, 

Never,  never,  never  to  return. 

As  I  pictured  all  this,  how  low  my  heart  sank ;  and  yet  it  was  no 
ill-usage  that  I  dreaded  ;  it  was  a  total  lack  of  sunshine,  the  heart-food, 
lacking  which,  the  soul  hungers.  I  wondered  if  home  would  be  to  me 
in  the  future  as  dreary  as  the,  past  had  been.  No!  no!  Cecil,  my  dar- 
ling! I  should  have  a  home  sometime,  a  bright,  blessed,  beautiful 


206  CECIL  VAIL. 

home.  I  didn't  care  whether  its  walls  were  of  brown-stone  or  un painted 
wood,  so  that  it  held  peace  and  tenderness.  Of  course,  I  should  not 
always  be  first  in  his  heart,  as  I  was  now.  There  would  be  some 
gentle,  lovely  woman  to  share  our  home.  I  wanted  it  to  be  so. 
Earth's  crowning  blessing  my  darling  must  possess,  if  I  looked  out  for 
it  myself.  And  I  would  love  her  so  dearly,  because  she  was  so  dear  to 
him.  I  would  love  her  so  she  couldn't  help  but  love  me  a  little  back ; 
and,  like  the  fairy  stories,  we  would  live  together  happily  ever  after- 
ward. 

Perhaps  I  saw  another  face  in  the  dreamy  picture  of  my  future. 
But,  if  so,  I  thought  it  was  certainly  not  strange  that  I  should 
remember  one  who  had  been  so  good  to  Cecil. 

It  was  always  shadowy  and  quiet  on  that  western  porch,  but  it  was 
more  quiet  on  this  evening,  it  seemed  to  me,  than  I  had  ever  known 
it  to  be.  I  can  remember  just  how  the  sky  looked  when  I  first  went 
out,  a  mass  of  rose,  and  purple,  and  amethyst,  changing  to  a  pale 
golden  yellow.  But  I  sat  there  till  it  turned  a  dull,  lifeless  grey,  and 
then  a  star  shone  out  above  it. 

It  was  then  that  a  carriage  with  one  man  in  it  passed  by,  and 
I  thought  I  heard  it  stop.  But  I  thought,  if  I  thought  anything  about 
it,  that  it  was  some  one  to  see  Mr.  Cook  upon  business.  I  did  not 
hear  a  step  behind  me,  and  the  'first  intimation  I  had  of  any  one's 
presence,  was  a  friendly  hand  laid  upon  my  shoulder :  — 

"  You  poor,  dear  child." 

Mrs.  Cook's  face  was  wet  with  tears,  and  she  bent  down  and 
kissed  me. 

"  What  is  it  ? "  I  cried ;  "  Cecil  ?  is  anything  the  matter  with  Ce- 
cil ? "  It  was  so  natural  for  the  first  thought  of  my  heart  to  rise  to 
my  lips. 

"You  poor  little  dear!"  This  was  from  Mr.  Cook,  who  was 
followed  by  an  elderly  man,  whom  I  recollected  as  the  innkeeper  at 


CECIL  NAIL. 


207 


Randolph.     This   man    came   forward   and   said,   "This   is   the  young 
lady,  I  suppose  ?" 

And  I  remember  well,  how  piteously  he  looked  at  me,  as  he  handed 
me  a  telegram.     I  took  it  and  read :  — 


BAD   NEWS. 


"  Cecil  Vail  mortally  wounded.     Send  Miss  Nora  Vail  instantly." 
From  the  time  I  read  these  words  till  I  stood  in  the  room  with 
Cecil,  it  all  seems  like  a  dream,  or  rather  as  if  all  the  world  of  liv- 
ing, breathing,  happy  beings,  moving  by  their  own  volition  and  impulses, 


210 


CECIL  VAIL. 


"  Cecil,  my  darling,  my  brother ! "  And  I,  Nora  Tail,  whose 
whole  worth  of  life  was  here  slipping  from  me  so  fast,  knelt  by  him, 
with  my  arms  about  his  neck,  and  my  face  pressed  close  to  his  own* 

At  last  he  whispered,  in 
a  tone  of  self-reproach  I 
couldn't  understand :  — 

"  I    have    broken   your 
heart,  poor  Nora  ;  how  white 


And  he  raised  his  poor, 
weak  hand,  that  lay  upon  the 
counterpane,  and  tried  to  pass 
it  caressingly  over  my  face ; 
but  it  fell  helplessly  again  to 
his  side ;  and  with  his  eyes 
full  of  sorrow  and  deep  self-reproach,  the  faint  voice  went  on : 

"  Did  they  tell  you,  Nora  ?  " 

"What,  Cecil?" 


THE    MEETING. 


CECIL  VAIL. 


211 


"  Did  they  tell  you  how  it  was  done  ?  " 
"  No,  they  told  me  nothing  !  " 

"  They  will   tell   you,"   he  whispered,  in   short  sentences,  broken 
often  with  weakness.     "You  will  have  to  know  it;  I  want  to  tell  you 


now,  while  I  can  hear  you  say  you  forgive 
me ;  it  was  in  a  drunken  quarrel.    Carlton 
insulted  me,  we  had  both  been  drinking, 
I  struck  him,  and  he  stabbed  me." 
He  paused  a  minute,  and  then  looked  up  into  my  face,  with  those 
affectionate,  appealing  eyes,  that  never  appealed  to  me,  or  never  could, 
in  vain. 

"  Can  you  forgive  me  ?    I  have  broken  my  promise  to  you,  but  I 


212  CECIL   VAIL. 

was  tempted,  Nora ;  you  can  never  know  liow  they  tempted  me,  uncle 
and  all,  and  I  was  weak ;  I  have  fallen  so  low  —  1  am  too  guilty." 

"  You  are  not  so  guilty,  my  poor  darling,  as  those  who  have  led 
you,  driven  you  into  temptation.  The  guilt  will  be  upon  them.  My 
broken  heart,  whose  only  treasure  you  were,  will  witness  against  them 
at  the  Last  Day.  Oh!  wrhy  did  I  ever  let  you  go  from  me?"  I  cried 
in  my  anguish. 

The  doctor  touched  me  upon  my  shoulder.  I  remember  well 
how  tenderly  and  pityingly  the  kind  eyes  I  had  not  forgotten,  looked 
down  upon  me,  as  I  rose  and  sat  down  by  the  pillow.  He  said  "  I 
need  not  disturb  you  but  a  minute." 

He  bent  down  and  moistened  Cecil's  lips  with  wine,  for  he  lay 
again,  as  he  did  when  I  first  came,  white  and  motionless  as  the  dead. 
The  doctor  did  not  caution  me  about  exciting  him,  but  only  said, 
"  he  will  revive  again,"  and  drew  up  a  chair  in  front  of  the  bed. 
We  both  waited ;  it  may  have  been  a  quarter  of  an  hour  that  he  lay 
thus,  while  the  gray  dawn  struggled  with  the  pale  night-lamp  for 
victory,  and  a  shadow  out  of  the  dark  passes  of  the  valley  would  flit 
across  his  face,  coming  oftener  and  oftener;  and  the  doctor's  watch, 
ticking  loudly  in  the  silence,  sounded  like  the  pulse  of  eternity  throb- 
bing on  forever.  At  last  Cecil  opened  his  eyes,  and  seemed  to  be 
thinking  of  something  that  troubled  him  ;  for  he  knit  his  brow,  as  if 
in  deep  thought ;  finally  he  spoke  in  a  whisper :  - 

"  Won't  you  tell  me  ;  there  is  something  I  wanted  to  say  ?  " 

And  he  lifted  to  the  doctor's  face  his  great  eyes,  so  full  of  the 
mystery  of  the  future  he  was  so  near,  and  full  of  a  perplexed,  ques- 
tioning expression. 

The  doctor  bent  over  him,  and  laid  his  hand  gently  upon  his 
forehead,  and  smoothed  back  the  brown  hair  as  tenderly  as  a  mother 
might. 

"Was  it  something  about  your  sister?" 


CECIL  VAIL.  213 

"  Yes,  Nora ; "  and  his  eyes  lost  that  seeking  look,  and  became 
full  of  a  boundless  sorrow  and  regret. 

"  Yes,  Nora  ;  she  loves  me  so." 

The  doctor  moved  away,  and  went  and  stood  by  the  window, 
looking  out,  and  I  went  forward  and  knelt  again  by  his  side. 

"Nora,  lay  your  cheek  down  close  to  mine.  I  can't  die  till  you 
promise  me  something  — 

"I  will  promise  you  anything;  there  is  nothing  too  hard  for  me 
to  promise  you." 

"  Will  you  try  to  forget  me ;  let  it  be  to  you  as  if  I  'had  died 
when  1  was  a  baby." 

"Don't  think  of  me,  darling  brother;  think  of— 

But  he  interrupted  me  with  his  faint  whisper,  full  of  a  bound- 
less sorrow  and  regret. 

"  I  said  I  would  make  your  future  happy,  and  I  have  broken  your 
heart.     I  wanted   to   make   you  a  happy  home,  that  would   atone  — 
Here  the  faint  voice  died  out. 

"  God  will  care  for  me,  Cecil.  Don't  think  of  me,  darling ;  think 
of  the  Good  Father,  who  can  forgive  all  our  sins,  and  take  us  to  the 
dear  home  above,  where  there  is  no  sin  nor  sorrow  —  where  we  can 
meet  again.  Will  you  pray  for  this,  Cecil?"  I  whispered,  with  my 
cheek  close  to  his,  which  was  growing  cold  so  fast. 

"  Lead  us  not  into  temptation,"  he  murmured,  striving  to  clasp 
his  hands  together,  as  he  used  to  in  prayer  when  a  child.  "  I  should 
have  prayed  that ;  let  them  all  —  those  like  me,  as  I  was  when  I  left 
you,  young,  unused  to  the  world — let  them  pray  that  prayer.  Had  I 
then,  I  shouldn't  have  been  here,  so  low,  beyond  God's  forgiveness  — 
God's  mercy." 

"That  you  can  never  be.  He  loves  you,  and  pities  you  more 
than  you  can  ever  dream  of.  He  wants  to  forgive  you,  to  take  you 
to  His  own  rest,  if  you  will  ask  Him,  if  you  will  trust  Him." 


214  CECIL   VAIL. 

But  he  only  murmured  again,  with  his  faint  voice,  the  words  that 
seemed  to  him  to  be  of  most  comfort,  "  Lead  us  not  into  tempta- 
tion." And  then  he  added,  while  a  sudden  look  of  anguish,  and 
despair,  and  reproach  came  into  his  face :  — 

"Tell  uncle—" 

But  whatever  message  the  soul,  groping  upon  the  borders  of  the 
unknown,  where  things  strange  to  us  here,  will  be  explained,  what- 
ever word  he  wished  to  leave  for  him  who  had  been  the  cause  of 
his  undoing,  will  never  be  known  here ;  for  the  dying  lips  refused  to 
utter  what  we  could  gather  only  in  the  knit  brow  of  despair  and  the 
troubled  and  reproachful  eyes ;  the  voice  sank  away  into  silence,  and 
the  message  commenced  on  earth  will  be  finished  at  the  bar  of  God. 

He  lay  silent,  with  closed  eyes,  for  so  long  a  time  that  I  thought 
he  would  never  be  conscious  again.  But  as  I  bent  over  him,  think- 
ing, as  fond  hearts  will,  that  I  could  give  him  up  if  he  could  only 
look  at  me,  or  speak  to  me  once  more,  he  suddenly  opened  his  eyes, 
and  looked  up  into  my  face  with  the  old  innocent  baby-look  that  he 
used  to  wear,  with  the  anguish,  and  reproach,  and  fear  all  gone  now. 
And  I  fancied  he  thought  he  was  again  in  the  old  chamber  at  home, 
for  he  said  with  a  smile,  as  he  used  to  before  I  left  him  at  night :  — 

"  Kiss  me,  Nora." 

I  bent  down  and  kissed  his  brow,  and  cheek,  and  lips.  Then 
softly,  but  quite  loud  and  clear,  he  said:- 

"  Good-night,  Nora." 

Then  he  murmured  dreamily  some  words  of  the  old  prayer  he 
used  to  repeat  to  me :  — 

"  Now   I    lay  me    down   to    sleep,"    and,  turning    his    head    over 

gently,  he  went  to  sleep. 

####  #*## 

From  the  moment  of  Cecil's  death,  there  is  a  blank,  a  death  in 
life,  that  lasted  for  long  weeks,  though  there  were  intervals  of  par- 


CECIL  VAIL.  215 

tial  consciousness  that  seem  like  fragments  of  frightful  dreams  faintly 
remembered,  when  I  would  be  vainly  striving  to  save  Cecil  from  some 
danger ;  it  was  Cecil,  always  Cecil,  who  was  in  some  peril  from  which 
I  was  striving  to  rescue  him. 

Sometimes  he  would  be  falling  over  a  precipice,  steep  and  sandy, 
clinging  to  a  slender  twig  that  grew  upon  its  very  utmost  edge;  and 
as  I  reached  down  to  him  it  would  break,  and  he  would  fall  down, 
down,  down ;  and  the  sand  would  slide  out  underneath  me,  and  I  would 
fall  with  him  and  be  lost.  And  days  of  unconsciousness  would  follow. 

Sometimes  he  and  I  would  be  walking  over  endless  tracts  of  ice, 
glittering  on  every  side  of  us,  and  no  object  in  sight  only  us  two,  wh<«n 
suddenly  the  ice  would  break  beneath  our  feet,  and  he  would  disappear, 
and  I  would  plunge  in  after  him,  and  die  with  him. 

Sometimes  the  solid  ground  would  give  way  beneath  our  feet.  AW 
would  stand  upon  the  crust  of  volcanoes,  that  would  burst  forth  in 
flames  and  swallow  us  up,  first  Cecil,  and  then  me,  who  would  rush  in 
after  him.  Islands  would  sink  with  us  beneath  the  water,  and  I  would 
go  down  with  my  arms  stretched  out  toward  him,  striving  to  reach  him, 
to  save  him,  as  he  sank  just  before  me. 

We  would  be  out  at  sea  in  two  boats,  side  by  side,  with  nothing 
else  visible  on  the  wide  waste  of  waters.  For  days  we  would  sail  along 
in  that  dead  calm,  with  the  sun  beating  down  upon  our  heads,  striving 
to  flee  from  some  danger  that  was  menacing  Cecil,  to  get  to, some  land 
of  escape  that  was  far  away,  hidden  from  us.  At  last  AVC  would  see 
land  ahead,  safety  for  Cecil,  when,  just  before  we  reached  it,  his  boat 
would  begin  to  sink,  sink,  sink,  and  I,  plunging  over  the  side  of  the 
boat,  would  sink  with  him. 

At  last,  my  intervals  of  consciousness  became  more  frequent  and 
my  dreams  calmer,  as  my  fever  burnt  itself  out  and  died  away ;  and  at 
last,  one  night,  which  must  have  been  about  six  weeks  from  the  day  I 
went  to  my  uncle's,  I  awoke  and  heard  a  clock  strike  twelve. 


216  CECIL  VAIL. 

The  room  was  dimly  lighted,  but  still  I  could  see  that  it  was 
entirely  strange  to  me.  A  woman  sat  by  a  stand,  with  her  back  to  me, 
and  a  face  was  bending  over  me ;  and,  although  it  seemed  looking  on 
me  from  some  strange  distance,  well  I  knew  that  kind,  noble,  gentle 
face,  pale  and  weary  now,  as  from  long  watching. 

For  the  instant,  that  face  brought  it  all  back  to  me.  I  had  been 
sent  for.  Cecil  was  sick.  Why  was  I  lying  there,  when  he  needed  me 
and,  may  be,  wanted  me  ?  I  would  speak,  at  least ,  and,  collecting  all 
my  strength,  I  spoke  out,  in  a  voice  I  did  not  know,  it  was  so  low,  and 
weak,  and  strange  to  me. 

"How  is  he?" 

The  face  bent  forward  eagerly  as  I  spoke ;  and  while  it  remained 
there,  wrapped  in  a  kind  of  haze,  that  made  it  seem  far  away,  though  it 
was  so  near  I  could  have  touched  it  with  my  hand,  I  repeated  my  words 
again,  as  people  do  in  dreams : 

"How  is  Cecil?" 

The  face  bent  down  and  kissed  me,  as  a  being  from  another  world 
might.  The  brown  hair  swept  about  my  face  like  a  soft  mist,  and,  for  a 
moment,  I  was  standing  out  in  a  spring  sunset,  flowers  were  lying  upon 
my  brow,  bending  from  leafy  boughs  overhead ;  a  warm  rain  was  falling 
upon  my  face. 

"  He  is  asleep." 

The  words  carried  me  back  again  into  the  chamber.  The  voice 
sounded  as  dreamy  and  strange  as  if  it  came  from  the  land  of  dreams, 
and  yet  it  contented  me.  I  remember  thinking  dreamily  how  good  it 
seemed  to  be  at  ease  about  him  —  he  was  better — and  to  go  to  sleep. 

And  then  we  were  out  in  a  boat  on  a  pleasant  river,  Cecil  and  I, 
gliding  along  between  green  shores,  where  birds  were  singing,  with  the 
cool  waves  splashing  against  the  side  of  the  boat.  Fainter  and  fainter 
sounded  the  ripples ;  the  bird's  song  melted  into  the  soft  sighing  of  the 
water,  into  silence  —  the  silence  of  a  sleep  that  was  as  profound,  almost. 


CECIL  VAIL. 


217 


ife 


as  the  sleep  of  death,  and  which  lasted  through  the  rest  of  that  night  and 
the  next  day,  until  noon,  when  I  awoke,  rational  and  out  of  danger. 

They  were  very  kind  to  me,  uncle,  his  housekeeper,  and  all,  and 
uncle  urged  me  to  stay  with  him  always.  But  no!  I  could  not  stay  in 
tlu  place  that  had  proven  so  hard  for  him,  my  darling. 

And  not  one  penny  of  the  wealth  he  wished  to  bestow  upon  me  for 

Cecil's  sake,  could  I  take ; 
it  seemed  to  me  like  the 
price  of  his  blood.  No !  I 
must  work,  I  said,  or  die. 
I  only  waited  there  till  I 
should  get  stronger. 

But  what  I  suffered 
in  those  long  days  and 
nights  only  the  dear  Lord 
can  tell,  who  draws  so  near 
when  we  are  in  sorrow. 

How  I  suffered  in 
those  long  days  of  conva- 
lescence, when  I  felt  my 
strength  was  returning, 
that  I  was  coming  back 
out  of  the  shadow  of  death , 
into  a  world  where  Cecil 
was  not !  Those  long,  long  nights,  when  the  air  was  full  of  his  voice, 
his  ringing  laugh,  his  pet  names  for  me,  his  dying  words. 

But  they  were  all  kind  to  me ;   and  that  face  that  bent  over  me 

with  tears  by  my  brother's  bed,  and  that  met  my  conscious  gaze  first  of 

all,  that  face  has,  through  all  the  years  since,  never  changed  to  me. 

We  have  a  little  girl,  that  her  father  would  call  Nora  — Nora  Vail 

Chester — her  father  would  have  it  so.     But  my  name  is  all  she  pos- 


NORA    VAIL   CHESTER. 


218  CECIL   VAIL. 

sesses  of  me,  for  she  is  her  father's  image  in  miniature;  and  I  love  her 
better,  because  she  has  his  eyes,  his  smile,  and  his  sunny  hair. 

We  try  to  make  home  the  pleasantest  spot  on  earth  to  our  little 
girl  and  boy,  so  that,  in  after  years,  amidst  life's  battle,  they  can  have 
at  least  a  sweet  memory  to  comfort  them.  I  am  a  happy  and  proud 
wife  and  mother — happy  in  my  home  ;  for  the  luxury  with  which  my 
husband  loves  to  surround  me  is  nothing  to  the  love  that  I  find  there  — 
proud  of  my  darlings,  my  noble  husband,  my  pretty  little  ones.  But 
Cecil,  my  baby  —  though,  in  his  three-years  manliness,  he  hardly  likes 
to  be  called  that — has  the  same  large,  dark,  loving  eyes  that  have 
looked  upward  to  me  thousands  of  times,  as  I  smoothed  back  just  such 
clustering  curls  from  another  white  forehead. 

He  is  generous,  affectionate,  impulsive,  easily  influenced.  Some- 
times he  comes  to  me  at  twilight,  tired  of  his  play,  and  lays  his  head  on 
my  knee,  and,  looking  up  in  my  face  with  loving  eyes,  he  says : 

"  What  makes  you  cry,  mamma  ? " 

And  for  answer  I  only  draw  him  closely  to  my  heart,  as  if  to  hold 
him  there  against  all  the  evil  and  temptation  in  the  world,  and  cry : 

"0  Cecil,  Cecil !" 


HE    WAITED    TO    SET-:    NO    MORE. 


HE  Dorcas  Society  was  one  gotten  up  by 
the  young  people  of  Lathrop.  It  was  a 
society  given  to  good  works,  and  it  had 
various  ways  of  extracting  money  from 
the  unwary  purses  of  Lathrop.  Fairs, 
grab-bags,  bazars,  post-offices,  all  these  means  had  been  exhausted,  and 
rumor  said  that  Mrs.  Moulton,  at  whose  house  the  weekly  meeting  was 
to  be  held  next,  was  going  to  inaugurate  something  entirely  new  for 
their  pleasure  and  profit.  It  was  added  that  Mrs.  Moulton  had  a 
young  lady  friend  from  the  city,  there  on  a  visit,  and  it  was  sup- 
posed that  she  would  aid  in  their  entertainment. 

The  day  before  that  momentous  meeting,  as  the  afternoon  was 
gradually  melting  away  in  the  golden  sunset,  little  Rob  Peters  stood 
in  the  back  yard  of  the  Moulton  cottage.  A  few  sticks  of  kindling 
wood  lay  at  his  feet,  as  trophies  of  his  prowess,  and  he  leaned  upon 
his  axe-handle,  as  one  wearied  in  the  conflict.  As  he  stood  there, 
another  small  figure  approached  down  the  road,  and  walking  past  the 
open  gate,  climbed  over  the  fence,  and  drew  near. 

Tlio    new-comer   was   the    son    of   Prof.  Muir's    housekeeper,  and 

(221) 


.222  THE  DORCAS  SOCIETY. 

his  name  was  Jim  Wells.  Prof.  Paul  Muir  was  talented,  handsome, 
wealthy,  thoroughly  good,  and  the  owner  of  Villa  Eden,  the  hand- 
somest and  grandest  residence  for  miles  and  miles  around. 

Mrs.  Moulton  was  fair-faced,  lovely  in  soul  and  life,  comfortable 
as  to  the  world's  goods,  and  had  been  for  one  year  a  widow.  If  you 
asked  little  Rob  Peters,  leaning  upon  his  battle-axe,  what  relation  he 
sustained  to  the  fair,  young  widow,  he  would  doubtless  say,  with  a 
deep  sigh,  that  "he  was  bound  to  her."  The  sigh  could  be  no  deeper, 
if  she  were  an  ogre,  and  the  figurative  chains  he  spoke  of  were  of 
iron,  that  clanked  as  he  walked. 

But  Rob  was  of  a  morbid  turn  of  mind,  and  was  not  happy.  In 
fact,  I  don't  know  as  he  could  be  very  happy,  under  any  circumstances. 
Gloom,  and  morbid  views  of  life,  seemed  to  be  his  peculiar  inheri- 
tance. He  certainly  had  no  other  hereditary  possessions,  so  perhaps 
he  might  be  pardoned  for  making  the  most  of  what  he  had.  He,  in 
reality,  loved  his  gentle  little  mistress,  and  the  change  from  the  town 
poorhouse,  to  her  pleasant  home  and  gentle  guardianship,  had  been 
almost  like  a  change  from  earth  to  heaven.  He  was  one  of  Dora 
Moulton's  pet  charities,  one  of  the  many  ways  in  which  she  spent 
her  liberal  income,  as  a  steward  of  her  great  Master. 

She  could  be  no  kinder  to  him,  if  he  were  her  own  brother.      She 
clothed    him  handsomely,  sent  him  to  school,  and    looked    forward  to 
starting  him  in  life  in  some  honorable  and  useful  manner.     And  slight, 
indeed  was  the  labor  which  he  did  in  payment  for  these  services. 

But  Rob  was  melancholy,  and  leaned  upon  his  axe-handle,  and 
looked  out  upon  life,  with  gloomy  and  questioning  eyes. 

" Hello,  Rob,"  said  the  new-comer. 

•"Hello,  back  again!"    said  Rob,  but   made  no  change  of  counte- 
nance or  position. 

But  the  new-comer  was  evidently  in  a  talking  mood,  and  was  not     . 
to  be  discouraged. 


THE  DORCAS  SOCIETY.  223 

"  Seen  you  killin'  hens,  over  here,  this  mornin',  an'  makin'  a  fuss. 
What's  up?" 

:;0h,  the  Dorcust  Society  is  goin'  to  meet  here,  to-morrow  night. 
I  killed  'em  for  the  Dorcusses." 

Never,  in  the  memory  of  man,  did  Rob  call  this  society  other  than 
the  Dorcust,  and  its  members  he  invariably  called  Dorcusses. 

Now,  if  Jim  had  one  special  weakness,  it  was  a  jealousy  of  those 
who  possessed  superior  advantages,  and  a  cankering  fear  lest  they  were 
putting  on  airs,  and  looking  down  upon  him.  And  like  older  chil- 
dren, who  are  afflicted  with  this  infirmity,  he  often  imagined  people 
were  guilty  of  this  crime  towards  him,  who  were  entirely  innocent 
of  it. 

So  he  now  observed,  with  some  bitterness :  — 

"I  guess  other  folks  can  have  things  to  their  housen,  and  kill 
hens,  and  make  fusses.  My  mother  belongs  to  the  Female  Sufferin' 
Society,  and  is  goin'  to  have  the  Female  Sufferers  to  our  house, 
bime-by." 

But  Rob  seemed  to  take  no  sort  of  interest  in  the  Female  Suf- 
frage Society.  His  gloomy  chin  rested  gloomily  on  the  axe-handle,  and 
he  looked  at  Jim,  with  gloomy  eyes,  as  he  said :  — 

"  What's  the  use  of  Dorcusses,  anyway  ?  " 

u  I  d'no,"  responded  Jim,  looking  non-plussed. 

Evidently  Rob  had  no  disposition  to  put  on  airs.  So  Jim  softened, 
and  mellowed  down  into  sociability  again,  and  a  look  of  neighborly 
interest  and  concern  covered  his  face,  as  Rob  put  the  gloomy  conun- 
drum to  him  once  more. 

"What's  the  use  of  Dorcusses,  anyway?  Had  to  run  of  errants 
all  day.  Kep'  me  on  my  feet,  all  day  a'most,  killin'  hens  and  things ; 
and  splittin'  kindlin'  wood;  shouldn't  have  to  split  half  so  much  if 
it  wuzn't  for  them  Dorcusses." 

"Have  to  split  for  more'n  two  fires?"  asked  Jim,  feelingly. 


224  THE  DORCAS  SOCIETY. 

"Don't,  when  there  haint  nobody  here.     Miss  Moiiltiim    lias    got 
a  feller  here  now,  a-seein'  of  her." 

"No —  has  she?     What  kind  of  a  lookin'  feller?" 

"  He'd  be  a  good-lookin'  feller,  if  it  wuzn't  for  his  beerd." 

"  What's  the  matter  with  his  beerd  ? " 

"  Oh,  it   is   all   over   his  chin,  and  hangs  down  over   his   mouth. 


"THAT  FELLER. 

like  a  curting.  I'll  be  hanged,  if  I  didn't  laugh  when  I  see  him  kiss 
Miss  Moulting.  I'll  be  hanged,  if  he  didn't  have  to  hold  back  his 
beerd  with  one  hand,  while  he  kissed  her.  I  snickered  out  loud,  but 
they  wus  so  took  up  with  each  other  that  they  didn't  ketch  me  at  it. 
But  I  couldn't  help  snickerin'." 

"Is  she  his  bo,  do  you  think?"  said  Jim. 

"Yes,  I   'most   know    she   is.     Sets   there   on  the  sofa,  with    his 


THE  DORCAS  SOCIETY.  225 

arm  round  her  now,  1*11  bet.  She  did,  when  I  carried  in  the  last 
load.  I  peeked  through  the  door  agin,  and  seen  'em.  Talkin'  awful 
sociable  too." 

"What  about?" 

"  Oh,  about  love,  and  such-like."  Rob  included  in  that  last  happy 
term  the  wide  world  of  sentiment  and  affection.  "N'  then  I  seen 
him  git  down  on  his  knees  before  her,  and  take  both  her  hands  in 
his'n,  and  say,  'I  love  you  —  I  love  you  to  destruction/' 

"  You  don't  say  so !  "  Jim's  eyes  were  round  as  large,  blue  glass 
beads. 

"Jest  es  true  es  I  live  and  breathe — hope  to  die  this  very 
minute." 

Jim  was  convinced.  They  had  no  stronger  oaths  to  bear  wit- 
ness to  any  fact,  however  extraordinary. 

"What  did  she   say?" 

"  Oh,  she  kinder  crumpled  down  towards  him,  and  says,  <  I  love 
you  too,  Charles,  and  will  be  your  bride.' " 

"What  else?" 

"  Oh,  lots  and  lots  of  jist  such.     Ocians  of  it." 

"  Shaw !  she  is  his  bo,  haint  she  ?  " 

"  Must  be.  But  I  haint  the  first  idee  where  he  come  from. 
First  I  knowed  there  he  wus,  right  there  in  the  parlor." 

"  Where  wus  that  girl  from  Boston  village,  that  is  a-visitin'  her  ?  " 

"Don't  know — didn't  see  her.  Mebby  she's  down  to  Squire  Le- 
land's  a-visitin' ;  they  was  down  there  yesterday.  Or  mebby  she's  to 
bed  with  the  sick  headache,  or  suthin'." 

"Hum  —  shaw!  What  else  did  they  say?"  Jim's  curiosity  was 
rampant,  and  could  not  easily  be  appeased. 

"  Oh,  all  of  a  sudden,  he  laughed  out  loud  —  the  feller  did  —  about 
how  he  and  Miss  Moulting  would  fool  Professor  Muir;  he  seemed  to 
be  awful  tickled  about  it,  the  feller  did." 

15 


226  THE  DORCAS  SOCIETY. 

But  here  Jim's  anger  rose  suddenly  and  fiercely.  No  henchman, 
in  feudal  times,  was  ever  more  loyal  to  his  liege  lord,  than  was  Jim 
to  Professor  Muir.  And  few  were  more  deserving  than  Paul  Muir 
of  such  devoted  loyalty. 

"  I  guess  they'll  fool  him,  a  great  sight.  I  guess  they'll  fool  my  pro- 
fessor. He  knows  more  than  the  hull  of  the  Dorcusses  put  together." 

"  Mebby  he  knows  more'n  the  Female  Sufferin'  Society,"  says 
Rob,  sarcastically. 

"Wall,  he  duz.  He  knows  more'n  any  Dorcust,  or  any  Female 
Sufferer  that  ever  walked  on  two  feet.  And  I  guess  Miss  Moulting 
will  have  to  get  up  earlier  than  she  does  now,  before  she'll  fool  my 
Mr.  Muir.  He  forgets  more  every  night,  a-goin'  up  stairs  to  bed,  than 
she'll  ever  know." 

But  here  Rob's  anger  swept  over  him  in  a  fierce  wave. 

"  If  you've  got  anything  to  say  aginst  Miss  Moulting,  you'd  better 
shet  up,  and  shet  up  quick,  too." 

At  this,  Jim's  hereditary  predisposition  got  the  better  of  him. 
"Oh,  you  think  you  are  somebody,  don't  you,"  he  cried,  "  'cause  you've 
got  a  feller  here,  with  a  long  beerd  ?  I  guess  Mr.  Muir  has  got  as 
good-lookin'  a  beerd  as  any  other  feller.  It  is  as  good  a  lookin'  one 
as  I  ever  see,  anyway.  You  seem  to  think  there  can't  anybody  else 
raise  beerds,  only  jist  that  feller." 

"  I'll  raise  you,  if  you  don't  clear  out,  and  clear  out  quick,  too." 

Jim  saw  determination  darkening  the  gloomy  orbs,  and  backed 
off,  just  as  Margaret,  the  cook,  came  to  the  back  porch,  and  called 
Robbie  in  to  his  supper. 

Professor  Paul  Muir  was  sitting  in  his  pleasant  study,  not  engaged 
in  reading,  but  in  seeing  visions  and  dreaming  dreams.  Not  unpleas- 
ant ones,  if  one  might  judge  from  his  face.  It  was  an  earnest,  strong 
face,  as  well  as  a  very  handsome  one.  A  face  to  trust,  to  reverence, 
as  well  as  admire.  As  we  said,  he  was  not  reading,  though  the 


THE  DORCAS  SOCIETY. 


227 


shelves,  filled  with  rare  volumes,  might  well  tempt  a  student.  No, 
he  was  sitting,  holding  a  tiny,  delicately-tinted  glove  in  his  hands,  and 
looking  at  it,  with  intent,  tender  eyes.  The  little  glove  exhaled  a  faint 
odor  of  violet,  as  he  turned  it  over  to  see  more  plainly  the  name, 
woven  in  dainty,  violet  silk  on  the  wrist.  "  Dora,"  just  that  one 
word,  yet  it  seemed,  judging  from  his  face,  to  hold  a  full  volume 
of  tender  thoughts  and  memories. 


PAUL  S   ANTICIPATION. 

But  a  knock  rouses  him  from  his  happy  musings,  and  quickly  drop- 
ping the  glove  in  a  secret  drawer,  and,  judging  from  the  change  in  his 
countenance,  his  ecstatic  dreams  also,  he  shut  the  drawer  with  a  sharp 
click,  and  said,  "  Come  in." 

The  form  that  entered  was  tall,  bony,  angular,  and  the  face  was  not 


226  THE  DORCAS  SOCIETY. 

But  here  Jim's  anger  rose  suddenly  and  fiercely.  No  henchman, 
in  feudal  times,  was  ever  more  loyal  to  his  liege  lord,  than  was  Jim 
to  Professor  Muir.  And  few  were  more  deserving  than  Paul  Muir 
of  such  devoted  loyalty. 

"  I  guess  they'll  fool  him,  a  great  sight.  I  guess  they'll  fool  my  pro- 
fessor. He  knows  more  than  the  hull  of  the  Dorcusses  put  together." 

"  Mebby  he  knows  more'n  the  Female  Sufferin'  Society,"  says 
Rob,  sarcastically. 

"Wall,  he  duz.  He  knows  more'n  any  Dorcust,  or  any  Female 
Sufferer  that  ever  walked  on  two  feet.  And  I  guess  Miss  Moulting 
will  have  to  get  up  earlier  than  she  does  now,  before  she'll  fool  my 
Mr.  Muir.  He  forgets  more  every  night,  a-goin'  up  stairs  to  bed,  than 
she'll  ever  know." 

But  here  Rob's  anger  swept  over  him  in  a  fierce  wave. 

"  If  you've  got  anything  to  say  aginst  Miss  Moulting,  you'd  better 
shet  up,  and  shet  up  quick,  too." 

At  this,  Jim's  hereditary  predisposition  got  the  better  of  him. 
"  Oh,  you  think  you  are  somebody,  don't  you,"  he  cried,  "  'cause  you've 
got  a  feller  here,  with  a  long  beerd  ?  I  guess  Mr.  Muir  has  got  as 
good-lookin'  a  beerd  as  any  other  feller.  It  is  as  good  a  lookin'  one 
as  I  ever  see,  anyway.  You  seem  to  think  there  can't  anybody  else 
raise  beerds,  only  jist  that  feller." 

"  I'll  raise  you,  if  you  don't  clear  out,  and  clear  out  quick,  too." 

Jim  saw  determination  darkening  the  gloomy  orbs,  and  backed 
off,  just  as  Margaret,  the  cook,  came  to  the  back  porch,  and  called 
Robbie  in  to  his  supper. 

Professor  Paul  Muir  was  sitting  in  his  pleasant  study,  not  engaged 
in  reading,  but  in  seeing  visions  and  dreaming  dreams.  Not  unpleas- 
ant ones,  if  one  might  judge  from  his  face.  It  was  an  earnest,  strong- 
face,  as  well  as  a  very  handsome  one.  A  face  to  trust,  to  reverence, 
as  well  as  admire.  As  we  said,  he  was  not  reading,  though  the 


Till-:  DORCAS  SOCIETY. 


227 


shelves,  filled  with  rare  volumes,  might  well  tempt  a  student.  No, 
lie  was  sitting,  holding  a  tiny,  delicately-tinted  glove  in  his  hands,  and 
looking  at  it,. with  intent,  tender  eyes.  The  little  glove  exhaled  a  faint 
odor  of  violet,  as  he  turned  it  over  to  see  more  plainly  the  name, 
woven  in  dainty,  violet  silk  on  the  wrist.  "  Dora,"  just  that  one 
word,  yet  it  seemed,  judging  from  his  face,  to  hold  a  full  volume 
of  tender  thoughts  and  memories. 


PAUL'S  ANTICIPATION. 

But  a  knock  rouses  him  from  his  happy  musings,  and  quickly  drop- 
ping the  glove  in  a  secret  drawer,  and,  judging  from  the  change  in  his 
countenance,  his  ecstatic  dreams  also,  he  shut  the  drawer  with  a  sharp 
click,  and  said,  u  Come  in." 

The  form  that  entered  was  tall,  bony,  angular,  and  the  face  was  not 


228  THE  DORCAS  SOCIETY. 

beautiful.  It  was  the  face  of  his  housekeeper,  Mrs.  Weils,  or,  in  her 
own  words,  "  Serena  Wells,  survivin'  relict  of  the  late  James  Wells,  of 
Wellsville." 

She  is  several  years  older  than  Prof.  Muir,  but  she  appreciates  him 
fully.  In  fact,  she  has  been  for  several  years  closely  attached  to  him, 
and  has  manifested  her  partiality  in  many  ways,  some  of  which  he  was 
aware  of,  and  some  of  which  were  of  so  secret  and  mysterious  a  nature, 
that  no  living  person,  except  her  bosom  friend,  Betsy  Wood,  was 
aware  of  them. 


THE   LETTER    "  M." 

f 

Three  times  a  day  did  she  solemnly  turn  out  her  tea,  leaving  the 
tea-grounds,  and,  with  a  countenance  becoming  the  solemnity  of  the 
mystic  rite,  wave  the  cup  three  times  around  her  head,  from  the  direc- 
tion of  the  rising  sun,  rap  on  it  three  times  with  her  bony  knuckles, 
and  then  look  into  its  depths,  hoping  and  expecting  to  see  Prof.  Muir's 
handsome  face,  photographed  on  the  tea-grounds,  dawning  upon  her  as 
the  sun  dawns  upon  the  waiting  earth. 

Occasionally  she  saw,  or  fancied  she  saw,  the  letter  M,  and  then 
she  was  triumphant ;  for  M,  as  she  truly  observed  to  Betsy,  stood  both 


TIIK  DORCAS  SOCIETY.  229 

for  Muir  and  for  marriage.  Though,  as  she  always  added,  for  she  was 
conscientious,  she  made  no  brags  and  boasted  over  no  opportunities. 
It  was  also  a  great  comfort  to  her  that  Prof.  Muir  walked  into  her  room, 
under  a  four-leafed  clover,  which  she  had  found  with  great  outlay  of 
time  and  aching  of  back  (for  she  was  badly  troubled  with  rheumatism), 
and  had  secretly  placed  for  his  overthrow  over  his  study  door.  It  was 
his  daily  sitting-room,  and  there  was  no  other  mode  of  entrance,  only 
through  the  window.  Yet  she  considered  his  passing  beneath  it  an 
extremely  favorable  omen,  and  so  also  did  Betsy  Wood. 

When  her  admiration  of  him  manifested  itself  in  the  form  of  deli- 
cious puddings  and  crisp  breakfast-rolls  the  professor  was  content. 
But  when  it  overflowed  in  sentimental  remarks  and  languishing  glances, 
although  a  brave  man,  he  fled  before  it. 

She  asked  him  now  if  he  wanted  anything  special  for  his  supper 
to-night ;  if  he  could  think  of  anything  he  could  relish  more  than  the 
common  run  of  "  vittles "  they  was  used  to. 

He  answered  her  pleasantly,  that  he  wished  for  nothing  uncommon 
and  special.  And  then  she  asked,  with  a  tinge  of  anxiety  in  her  voice : 

"  Are  you  a  lay  in'  out  to  go  to  the  Dorcas  Society  to-morrow 
night?" 

He  said,  "  Yes,  he  might  go  if  he  returned  from  town  in  time.  He 
had  business  of  importance  in  town." 

Mrs.  Wells  retired  from  the  presence  with  a  light  buoyancy  of 
spirit  that  extended  itself  to  her  tea-cakes.  What  would  she  say  if 
she  knew  that  "  his  business  of  importance  "  was  only  to  get  a  bouquet, 
the  rarest  of  flowers,  for  Dora  Moulton  ? 

"  Sweet  Dora !  Darling  Dora !  "  Thus  did  our  grave  professor 
call  her,  to  himself,  as  he  sat  there  in  the  gathering  twilight. 

Poor  man !  He  had  been  cheated  out  of  his  happiness  so  long 
that  he  thought  the  paradise  which  was  now  opening  before  him 
would  be  all  the  sweeter  for  his  long  waiting. 


230  TUE  DORCAS  SOCIETY. 

All  his  life  long  he  had  loved  Dora,  worshiped  her.  He  had  been 
forced  to  stand  by  and  see  a  man  with  not  half  his  worth  take  his  trea- 
sure from  him,  and,  what  was  ten-fold  harder  to  his  true,  tender  heart, 
had  seen  that  man  hold  it  lightly,  and  grow  tired  of  what  he  would 
have  bartered  half  his  life  for. 

He  had  seen  the  soft,  dove-like  eyes  grow  weary,  and  wistful,  and 
large  with  pain  and  despair  ;  seen  them  turn  to  his  tried  and  true  face, 
full  of  an  innocent,  child-like  longing  for  the  sympathy  and  tenderness 
he  would  have  given  the  whole  world  to  besto\v. 

But  our  grave  professor  was  strong,  as  well  as  tender.  And  so, 
when  he  found  himself  in  danger,  he  was  strong  enough  to  run  away 
from  temptation.  Some  people  kneel  down  every  morning  and  pray, 
"  Lead  me  not  into  temptation,"  and  then  rise  from  their  knees  and 
deliberately  walk  into  it.  But  Paul  Muir  was  wiser  and  stronger ;  and 
when  he  saw,  in  Dora  Moulton's  eyes,  the  truth  they  were  so  uncon- 
sciously revealing — that  her  marriage  had  been  a  terrible  mistake,  that 
she  had  thrown  away  the  jewel  and  accepted  the  counterfeit — he  went 
away,  for  the  simple  reason  that  he  dared  not  stay.  He  was  not  afraid 
of  her  husband  ill-using  her,  unless  by  indifference  and  neglect ;  and  so 
he  placed  long  miles  of  land  and  sea  between  him  and  those  wistful 
brown  eyes.  He  took  his  sore  heart  to  a  distant  city,  and  there  tried  to 
forget. 

He  had  wealth  enough,  but  more  came  to  him,  fame,  success.  But 
those  best  of  friends,  happiness  and  content,  came  not. 

But  he  was  calm  and  reticent  concerning  his  inner  life.  He  was 
pleasant  and  genial  to  all,  and  was  called  a  very  successful,  and  an 
exceptionally  happy  man.  Thank  heaven !  there  are  some  who  can 
bear  their  burdens  with  a  smiling  face,  and  not  weary  the  heavens  and. 
the  souls  of  their  friends  witli  selfish  murnmrings.  If  his  heart  was  a 
grave,  as  he  indeed  felt  it  to  be,  he  covered  it  with  fragrance  and 
beauty,  that  cheered  and  blessed  the  lives  of  others. 


THE  DORCAS  SOCIETY.  231 

Five  years  after  his  flight  news  came  to  him  that  George  Moulton 
was  dead  —  thrown  from  a  horse  and  killed  instantly.  He  waited  six 
months,  an  eternity  to  him,  and  then  he  returned  to  the  beautiful  home 
he  had  never  sold,  because  it  was  near  hers,  the  home  he  had  named, 
years  ago,  when  they  were  boy  and  girl  lovers,  Villa  Eden. 

The  first  time  lie  had  looked  in  t)ora  Moulton's  eyes  he  thought  he 
saw  in  them  a  prophecy  of  future  happiness,  home,  rest,  blessedness. 

He  had  said  to  himself  that  he  would  wait  just  one  year,  in  mem- 
ory of  the  man  who  had  blasted  two  lives,  before  he  spoke  of  love  to 
her — just  one  year,  not  one  moment  longer;  and  to-morrow  evening 
that  long,  long  year  of  waiting  would  end.  He  had  treated  her,  mean- 
time, only  as  a  friend ;  he  had  guarded  his  words,  his  actions.  But  the 
mystic  language  that  soul  speaks  to  soul  had  told  him  the  sweet  truth. 
She  was  shy  as  a  wild  bird,  but  he  knew  she  loved  him. 

And  to-morrow  evening  he  could  speak  to  her,  after  the  tiresome 
company  had  all  left.  Pie  would  linger  awhile  alone  with  her,  the  dar- 
ling, and  tell  her  all  he  had  longed  so  to  say  to  her.  He  pictured  to 
himself  just  how  her  sweet,  brown  eyes  would  glance  up  into  his.  Her 
eyes  were  always  as  clear  and  honest  and  innocent  as  a  child's.  And 
oh,  the  sweet,  sweet  story  he  would  read  in  them ! 

He  was  thinking  of  just  what  he  would  say  to  her,  of  all  the  fond, 
loving,  pet  names  he  would  call  her,  how  he  would  take  those  soft  little 
hands  in  his  own,  how  he  would  draw  the  blushing,  lovely  little  face  to 
his  bosom,  to  hold  her  there  against  all  the  world — against  all  care  and 
sorrow,  when,  suddenly,  little  Jim  Wells  entered  the  room.  Jim  came 
with  a  lighted  lamp,  which  he  set  down  on  the  table  with  such  a  bang 
that  it  startled  the  professor.  He  looked  up  and  said : 

"Why,  Jim,  what's  the  matter?" 

"  I'm  mad !  madder' n  a  hen  ! "  cried  Jem,  in  a  loud,  angry  voice. 
"  I  wish  I'd  licked  him.  I  could  lick  him,  I  know  I  could,  if  it  hadn't 
been  jest  as  it  was." 


232  THE  DORCAS  SOCIETY. 

"  How  was  it,  Jim  ? "  said  the  professor,  with  an  amused  smile. 
He  had  a  keen  eye  for  the  humorous,  and  Jim  looked  so  much  like  a 
very  small  bantam,  whose  feathers  were  bristling  with  indignation,  that 
he  could  hardly  avoid  laughing  outright. 

"  Well,  I  guess  you  wouldn't  laugh  if  you  knowed  how  it  wus. 
The  idee  of  Miss  Moulting  fooling  you,  her  and  that  feller  with  the 
beerd,  sayin'  they  wus  a-goin'  to  fool  you,  and  then  snickerin'  over  it ! 
It  made  me  madder'n  a  hen — madder'n  a  wet  hen,"  he  added,  as  if 
that  was  the  last  height  to  which  human  indignation  could  ascend. 

"  What  is  that  you  are  saying  ? "  said  the  professor,  suddenly 
losing  all  sense  of  the  ludicrous,  his  face  growing  red  and  white  in 
turn.  , 

"  Why,  her  Rob  hern  'em  say  it  this  very  day.  Hern  'em  talking 
about  it,  her  and  that  feller  with  a  beerd  that  is  there  a  courtin'  of 
her." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  Jim  had  never  heard  the  good-natured 
professor's  voice  sound  as  it  did  now. 

"  She  did  say  it,  jest  as  sure  as  I  live  and  breathe  ;  hope  to  die  this 
very  minute.  Rob  hern  her  say  it,  and  she  and  the  other  feller  snick- 
ered. Rob  hern  'em." 

"  Tell  me  at  once  what  you  know,"  said  the  professor,  sternly. 

And  Jim,  nothing  loth,  began,  and  told  the  whole  story,  from 
beginning  to  end,  just  as  Rob  had  told  it  to  him.  He  omitted  nothing. 
He  began  with  their  introductory  conversation.  "  The  Dorcusses,  the 
Sufferin'  Society,  the  kindling-wood,  the  feller  with  the  beerd,  how  he 
told  Mrs.  Moulting  he  loved  her,  how  she  said  she  loved  him,  and  would 
be  his  bride." 

Not  once  did  the  professor  interrupt  him,  by  word  or  gesture,  dur- 
ing his  recital.  But,  by  the  time  he  had  concluded  his  story,  the  red 
flush  that  had  contended  for  the  mastery  on  the  professor's  face  had 
quite  vanished,  leaving  an  almost  deathly  pallor.  Jim,  though  exceed- 


TllK  DORCAS  SOCIETY.  233 

ingly  disagreeable,  was  truthful.     As  for  Rob,  he  looked  upon  life  with 
far  too  serious  and  gloomy  a  vision  for  romancing. 

The  professor,  with  a  strong  effort,  mastered  his  emotions,  and  told 
Jim,  quietly,  that  he  could  go.  So  Jim  went  out  and  told  his  mother 
the  whole  story,  which  proved  so  animating  and  exciting  to  her,  that 
she  sent  for  Betsy  Wood  at  once,  who  told  her  fortune  three  times,  past, 
present,  and  future,  and  who  saw  Professor  Muir's  form  in  it  every  time. 

But  the  professor  himself  did  not  take  any  tea  that  night.  No, 
after  Jim  left,  he  took  two  or  three  quick  turns  through  the  room, 
and  then  exclaimed,  aloud :  — 

"What  an  idiot  I  am,  to  be  so  moved  by  a  child's  talk.  I  will 
go  there  myself,  at  once ;  I  will  not  wait  a  moment." 

So  he  took  his  hat  and  cloak,  and  started  in  the  direction  of  the 
pretty  cottage,  the  happy  path  he  had  trodden  so  often  of  late. 

There  was  a  bright  light  in  the  parlor,  and  the  curtains  were 
not  drawn,  and  as  he  paused  at  the  little  iron  gate,  he  looked  up,  , 
and  saw  —  oh,  miserable,  miserable,  man!  —  Dora,  his  Dora,  as  he  had 
fondly  called  her,  standing  in  front  of  the  great  pier-glass,  and  by  her 
side  a  man  with  a  long,  flowing  beard.  The  man's  arm  was  around 
her  waist,  and  as  he  looked,  he  bent  down,  and  kissed  her ;  and  Dora 
laid  her  beautiful  head  on  his  shoulder. 

The  professor  waited  to  see  no  more.  He  turned  back  toward 
Villa  Eden  —  lost  Eden  now  —  place  of  wretchedness  forevermore. 

Never,  during  his  whole  life,  could  he  recall  how  he  had  reached 
his  room.  But  reach  it  he  did,  at  last ;  and  when  there,  he  threw 
himself,  face  downwards,  upon  the  sofa ;  and  there  he  lay,  in  just  that 
position,  till  the  cold  light  of  dawn  shone  in,  through  his  chamber 
window. 

Again !  again !  to  have  his  happiness  snatched  out  of  his  hands. 
And  mingled  with  his  wretchedness  now  was  that  keenest  of  pangs, 
that  she,  his  idol,  his  ideal  of  all  that  was  purest  and  most  womanly, 


234 


THE  DORCAS  SOCIETY. 


was  false,  was  a  coquette.  If  those  sweet  eyes  had  not  held  love  for 
him,  then  she  was  a  consummate  actress,  then  she  had  striven  to 
ruin  his  happiness,  had  led  him  on  with  false  hopes  to  despair,  He 
had  been  living  in  a  fool's  paradise,  feeding  his  heart  with  false 
hopes ;  and  all  this  while,  she  had  a  lover.  How  could  he  endure  it, 
how  could  he  live ! 

In  the  morning  he  told  Mrs.  Wells,  frightening   her   nearly  into 
hysterics   with   his    white   face,  that    sudden    business    of   importance 

called  him  away,  and  that  he  did 
not  know  when  he  should  return. 
He  went,  and  Mrs.  Wells, 
watching  him  from  her  chamber 
lattice,  saw  that  he  did  not  stop 
at  Dora  Moulton's  cottage,  and 
although  his  appearance  was  cer- 
tainly strange,  still  she  drew  a 
favorable  conclusion  from  this 
fact,  and  from  his  leaving  home 
on  the  eve  of  Mrs.  Moulton's 
party. 

Betsy  Wood  also  thought  it 
looked  favorable.  And  in  Mrs. 
Wells'  tea-cup,  that  afternoon, 
Betsy  saw  "  a  light-complected 
man,  with  blue  eyes,  sort  o'  sad, 
and  sort  o'  smilin'  lookin',  and 

A  FAVORABLE    CONCLUSION. 

a  brown  moustache  and  whis- 
kers, and  he  seems  to  be  about  the  height  of  a  certain  person." 
She  also  saw,  in  the  same  cup,  "  a  ring  entirely  closed,  which 
even  an  infant  might  know  means  an  offer,  and  three  clear  dots 
in  a  row,  which  signifies  plainer  than  words  that  you,  Mrs.  Wells, 


THE  DORCAS  SOCIETY.  235 

will  get  your  wish."  What  that  wish  was  it  is  needless  to  say. 
The  supper  passed  off  pleasantly,  Mrs.  Wells'  food  was  delicious,  her 
tea  strong  and  stimulating,  and  inspired  by  that  and  friendship,  Betsy 
Wood  volunteered  the  prophecy  that  if  Mrs.  Wells  was  not  married 
in  less  than  six  months,  to  a  certain  person,  it  would  be  her  own 
fault.  Mrs.  Wells,  at  that,  rose  from  the  table,  and  wrapped  up  a 
large  "  drawing "  of  -the  tea,  for  Betsy  to  take  home  with  her  to  try 
in  the  morning. 

But  how  fared  the  professor,  as  the  morning  train  bore  him  from 
Lathrop ;  away  from  Dora,  with  her  sweet,  false  face ;  away  from  the 
hated  rival,  who  had  won  her  from  him ;  away  from  the  busy  tongues 
and  gossip,  that  would  soon  be  busy  over  the  news  of  her  engage- 
ment ?  Alas !  his  sad,  heavy  heart  went  with  him  wherever  he  went. 
Those  sweet,  wistful  eyes,  the  eyes  of  his  first  and  only  love,  went 
with  him  too,  and  at  last  they  drew  him  back  to  her.  He  must  see 
her  again,  if  it  made  his  agony  tenfold  greater.  He  must  look  upon 
her  face  again,  and  hear  that  sweet  voice,  if  only  to  hear  it  say  "  fare- 
well forever." 

So,  at  last,  for  it  seemed  an  eternity  to  him,  though  it  was  only 
the  third  day  of  his  absence,  just  at  sunset,  he  left  the  little  station, 
and  walked  up  to  Villa  Eden.  He  had  gone,  perhaps,  half  the  distance, 
when  he  espied  a  little  figure,  sitting  in  a  disconsolate  position,  by 
the  side  of  the  road ;  and  as  he  approached  nearer,  he  saw  it  was 
little  Rob,  Dora  Moulton's  small  bondman. 

The  professor  was  a  great  favorite  with  all  the  small  boys  and 
girls  of  the  neighborhood,  as  well  as  with  the  larger  ones ;  and  as  he 
drew  near,  Rob  got  up,  and  walked  along  by  his  side. 

Following  blind  habit,  the  first  words  the  professor  said  were:  — 

"  How  is  your  mistress,  Robbie  ?  " 

"  Oh !  she  haint  well  a  mite,  I  guess  she  worked  too  hard  to  the 
Dorcust  Society.  There  was  sights  of  Dorcusses  there,  lots  to  do.  She's 


236  THE  DORCAS  SOCIETY. 

been  kinder  pale  ever  since  that  night.  I  guess  she  wondered  why 
you  didn't  come ;  she  'spected  you,  I  know ;  seen  her  out  on  the  west 
porch,  a-lookin'  up  that  way,  lots  of  times ;  moonlight,  you  know,  that 
night,  bright  as  a  dollar;  sights  of  Dorcusses  there ;  never  seen  so  many 
of  'em  together,  in  my  life.  We  was  jest  run  over  with  Dorcusses. 
Don't  see  no  use  of  havin'  so  many  of  'em,  anyway." 

But  the  professor  was  not  heeding  Rob's  last  words,  nor  the 
pensive,  shadow  that  was  gathering  on  the  small  face. 

"  So  she  looked  for  me,"  the  professor  was  saying  to  himself. 
"  She  wanted  me  to  come,  that  she  might  witness  my  pain  and  humil- 
iation, at  the  sight  of  my  happy  and  successful  rival.  Oh,  Dora, 
Dora!"  he  groaned. 

This  agonized  cry  of  his  soul  seemed  to  him  to  fill  the  whole 
world  about  him.  A  bird  flew  past  them,  up  into  the  thick  trees, 
that  bordered  one  side  of  the  road,  through  which  he  and  Rob  were 
passing.  Its  low,  sweet  song  smote  the  professor's  heart  with  a  keen 
pang.  Oli!  how  he  envied  it — envied  the  soulless  creature,  who  knew 
not  how  to  suffer.  "  Dora,  Dora !  my  lost  Dora ! "  his  heart  cried,  as 
softly  the  south  winds  swayed  the  green  branches  overhead.  Brightly 
the  golden  sunlight  sifted  down  through  the  emerald  screen.  The 
beauty  all  about  him  seemed  but  to  make  his  agony  tenfold  deeper, 
and  the  words  of  Enon,  when  maddened  by  love  and  jealous  pain, 
rose  to  his  lips :  — 

"Oh,  happy  heaven !  how  canst  thou  see  my  face? 
Oh,  happy  earth,  how  canst  thou  bear  my  weight?" 

Silently  he  and  Rob  walked  along,  between  the  blossoming  hedges. 
We  have  said  the  professor  was  a  brave  man  —  a  strong  man  —  and 
he  was ;  and  I  think  he  gave  a  proof  of  it  now,  by  rousing  himself 
from  his  sorrowful  musings,  and  speaking  cheerfully  to  the  little  fel- 
low by  his  side. 


TIIK  DORCAS  SOCIETY.  .         237 

"  So  you  were  resting  here,  were  you,  Robbie,  when  I  overtook 
you?" 

"Yes.  I  have  been  down  to  Squire  Leland's.  I  went  to  carry 
home  Frank  Leland's  clothes  and  beerd.  Miss  Moulting  sent  me." 

"  His  clothes  and  beard  ?  " 

"  Yes,  the  clothes  and  beerd  Miss  Cecile  wore,  the  night  of  the 
Dorcust  Society.  She  fooled  'em  all ;  fooled  every  one  of  the  Dor- 
cusses;  acted  out  a  piece  dressed  up  like  a  feller  with  a  beerd. 
Asked  ten  cents  for  seein'  of  'em  act  it  out.  They  fooled  me  too. 
1  peeked  through  the  door,  the  day  before,  and  seen  her  and  Miss 
Moulting  actin'  it  out ;  and  thought  she  was  a  feller ;  thought  so  jist 
as  sure's  I  live  and  breathe ;  hope  to  die  this  very  minute.  Miss 
Moulting  seemed  to  think  the  world  of  him.  I  thought  she  was  his 
bo,  sure  as  everything.  Jim  thought  so  too.  Jim  and  me  did  — 
thought  she  was  his  bo." 

But  Robbie  was  pouring  his  words  now  upon  the  empty  air,  for 
the  professor  was  far  in  advance  of  him,  going  toward  the  cottage, 
with  long  strides. 

Oh,  Mrs.  Wells,  Mrs.  Wells !  Mix  no  more  connubial  hopes  with 
the  ingredients  of  his  muffins  and  tea-cakes.  Look  no  more  for  the 
professor's  manly  form.  Wave  that  mystic  cup  no  more  from  the 
dawning  east ;  rather  lift  it  towards  the  setting  sun,  emblem  of  perish- 
ing hopes.  The  letter  M.,  which  you  and  Betsy  saw  in  its  treacher- 
ous depths,  should  have  been  translated  Mala  fide  instead  of  marriage 
and  Muir.  Bend  your  aching  back  no  more  in  search  of  the  dewy,  four- 
leaved  clover,  fair,  false  oracle,  which  is  to  you  as  but  a  snare  and  a 
delusion.  Or,  if  you  have  still  any  faith  in  those  unhallowed  rites, 
wave  your  tea-cup  heroically  towards  fresh  fields  and  pastures  new. 
Hope  springs  eternal  in  the  female  breast.  And  haply  some  clover 
leaf  may  yet  spring  from  the  rocky  earth,  and  wave,  and  wave  tri- 
umphant, over  some  masculine  head,  an  extremity  that  shall  prove  to 


238 


THE  DORCAS  SOCIETY. 


be  your  opportunity.  Men  swarm  the  earth,  in  all  directions,  and  the 
voice  of  widowers  is  heard  in  the  streets.  Do  not  despair,  Mrs. 
Wells,  for  feats  seemingly  impossible  are  accomplished  by  the  valiant. 

But  Professor  Muir  is  lost  to  you.  His  dreamings  have  come 
true.  A  gentle  head  is  lying  upon  his  manly  breast.  His  heart  is 
beating  with  tremulous  throbs  of  ecstacy,  beneath  the  rose-leaf  pressure 
of  the  soft  cheek,  that  lies  so  confidingly  there. 

Never,  on  earth,  did  brown  eyes  hold  a  tenderer  love  and  trust. 
Never  did  a  truer  love,  and  a  warmer  admiration,  look  out  of  a  man's 
eyes,  and  glorify  a  woman's  life  into  a  heavenlier  existence.  Soon, 
very  soon,  will  his  home  become  what  it's  name  has  hitherto  falsely 
prophesied,  a  Paradise,  love-glorified,  Villa  Eden,  indeed. 


PERPLEX  INCi    QUESTIONS. 


HEN  nearly  the  whole  of  the  main  street  of 
Livingstone  Manor  lay  in  ashes,  with  but  lit- 
tle insurance  to  give  comfort,  there  was,  of 
course,  a  great  excitement  in  the  minds  and 
hearts  of  the  villagers.  But,  as  time  passed  on,  the  village  was  rebuilt, 
and  peace  brooded  again  over  the  place.  Later,  when  the  lawyer's  only 
daughter  eloped  with  the  village  shoemaker,  the  public  mind  was  agi- 
tated to  an  extent  rarely  witnessed. 

But  all  of  these  former  excitements  paled  and  were  as  nothing 
before  the  furore  caused  by  the  announcement  that  Paul  Livingstone 
was  not  only  coming  home  to  live,  after  his  long  sojourning  abroad,  but 
was  actually  engaged  to  preach  to  them,  in  the  old  stone  church  which 
his  grandfather  had  built,  and  which  was  the  only  one  in  the  place. 
Paul  Livingstone's  father  had  been  the  great  man  of  the  place.  His 
stately  stone  manor-house  looked  down  upon  the  little  village  from  its 
sunny  oak-crowned  eminence,  half  a  mile  away.  Mr.  Livingstone  had 
owned  nearly  all  the  village,  and  had  marvelous  wealth  beside  in  stocks 
and  lands  ;  but  for  years  he  had  lived  abroad,  ever  since  his  young  wife 
died,  leaving  little  Paul  to  half  break  his  father's  heart  at  first,  with  the 
same  blue  eyes  and  sweet  smile  that  had  faded  forever  from  his  sight, 
16  (241) 


242  BELINDA,  CAROLINE,  AND  HENRIETTA. 

and  in  time  to  heal  the  sharp  wounds  of  his  bereavement  with  his  filial 
love  and  rare  promise.  When  Paul  became  of  age  he  chose  the  profes- 
sion of  the  ministry,  from  pure  love  to  God  and  humanity.  And  when 
his  father  died,  and  he  came  home  to  the  old  manor-house  to  live,  and 
was  really  engaged  to  preach  in  the  village  church,  as  we  have  said,  the 
excitement  was  fearful,  especially  among  the  unmarried  females  of  the 
village,  for  he  was  young,  wealthy,  and  attractive  in  every  way,  and 
rumor  said  he  was  not  unwilling  to  wed,  but  as  yet  had  found  no  woman 
to  suit  his  rather  fastidious  tastes.  He  was  very  noble  and  grand-look- 
ing, too,  and  his  handsome,  blonde  face  was  filled  with  a  purity  and  ear- 
nestness of  expression  that  would  have  rendered  common  features 
attractive.  The  few  weeks  before  his  first  sermon  were  laborious, 
anxious  weeks  to  the  village  dressmaker  and  milliner.  Indeed,  the 
dress-maker,  from  sheer  over-exertion,  was  in  danger  of  injuring  her 
spine,  and,  being  frightened  at  her  state,  she  absolutely  refused  to  quill 
the  thirteenth  ruffle  on  Belinda  Moss's  new  poplin  dress.  She  said, 
openly,  that  twelve  ruffles  were  all  she  would  undertake.  Caroline 
Winters,  who  took  time  by  the  forelock,  succeeded  in  getting  her  dress 
made  to  suit  her,  but  her  bonnet  tried  her.  Her  mind  was  wrought 
upon,  not  knowing  whether  blue  or  green  were  most  becoming  to  her 
complexion.  Henrietta  Cole  was  made  unhappy  to  the  last  moment 
by  the  dressmaker  absolutely  refusing  to  prune  her  over-skirt  the  eighth 
of  an  inch  Henrietta  firmly  believing  that  it  would  improve  it  by  having 
it  so  much  shorter. 

The  day  came  at  last ;  and  it  would  seem,  truly,  that  the  eloquent, 
earnest,  loving  words  of  truth  and  pleading  would  lift  the  minds 
of  his  hearers  above  the  petty  things  of  earth  and  sense.  A  true,  ear- 
nest teacher  was  Paul  Livingstone  to  the  people,  a  loving  and  devout 
follower  of  the  Master  he  had  renounced  the  ambitions  of  the  world  to 
follow.  Never  had  Livingstone  Manor  witnessed  so  large  a  congrega- 
tion as  flocked  every  Sabbath  to  hear  the  young  minister;  and  espe- 


BELINDA,  CAROLINE,  AND  HENRIETTA.  243 

cially  the  young  ladies  of  his  flock  were  hindered  not  by  rain  or  cloudy 
winds  from  punctual  attendance.  He  had  not  dwelt  at  Livingstone  Manor 
but  a  few  weeks  before  he  discovered  that  Hope  Winston  had  the  sweet- 
est face  and  the  most  wonderfully  sweet  voice  of  any  young  lady  in  his 
congregation.  After  he  knew  her  better  he  found  that  her  charms  of 
mind  and  soul  far  exceeded  those  which  had  first  attracted  him.  He 
thought  he  had  never  before  met  a  woman  who  was  so  gifted  and 
lovely,  and  yet  so  modest  and  unaffected.  He  gave  saving  evidence  of 
this  conviction ;  whereat  Belinda  Moss  remarked  to  Caroline  Winters, 
that  "  I  never  thought  Hope  Winston  anything  extra." 

Then  Belinda  found  that  Caroline  had  long  and  silently  entertained 
the  same  opinion.  And  as  the  two  chanced  to  mention  this  belief  of 
theirs  to  Henrietta  Cole,  she  went  a  little  further.  She  mistrusted — 
but  this  was  in  strict  confidence, — she  mistrusted  that  Hope  wasn't 
any  better  than  she  should  be. 

The  mothers  of  these  young  ladies,  when  the  subject  was  men- 
tioned incidentally  to  them,  reproved  their  daughters  gravely  for  the  sin 
of  evil-speaking,  and  reminded  them,  looking  benignantly  over  their 
spectacles,  of  the  duty  of  exercising  charity.  But  they  ended  by 
declaring  that  they  had  thought  themselves  that  Hope,  although  she 
was  very  lady-like  and  modest  in  her  manners,  still  she  was  a  little  too 
free  to  talk  to  the  young  minister  about  poetry  and  books,  and  the  like. 
She  was  a  little  too  free  to  talk  to  him,  considering  he  was  a  man ;  she 
actually  didn't  seem  to  be  a  bit  more  afraid  of  him  than  if  he  was  a 
woman. 

And  these  excellent  old  ladies,  each  of  whom  had  lived  nearly  half 
a  century  with  one  of  these  fearful  beings,  men,  without  being  devoured 
by  them,  ended  with  a  deep  sigh,  as  if  a  well-grounded  and  evident  dis- 
trust of  man  was  the  one  thing  needful  to  complete  a  perfect  woman- 
hood. 

Belinda,  Caroline,  and  Henrietta  were  rather  commonplace  women, 


244  BELINDA,   CAROLINE,  AND  HENRIETTA. 

and  so,  as  a  matter  of  course,  they  disliked  genius,  originality,  and 
enthusiasm  in  a  woman.  They  detested  it,  for  they  feared  it  bordered 
upon  that  dangerous  state,  the  state  of  being  strong-minded.  They 
almost  knew  Hope  was  inclined  that  way ;  for  had  she  not  been  over- 
heard to  say  that  she  preferred  McDonald's  and  George  Eliot's  novels  to 
those  of  Mrs.  Holmes  ;  and,  as  Belinda  well  remarked,  "  What  right- 
minded  woman  ever  felt  in  that  way,  or  would  make  that  remark, 
unless  she  were  inclined  to  be  strong-minded?"  And  they  felt  that  they 
would  either  of  them  rather  be  dead  than  to  be  suspected  of  that,  for 
men  so  detested  strength  of  mind  in  a  woman.  They  knew  that  men 
loved,  above  all  things,  a  winning  weakness  in  women*  They  had  read 
their  well-rounded  words  in  praise  of  doll-women.  But  still  these 
same  men,  after  spending  an  evening  exclusively  in  the  society  of  ladies 
of  this  type,  after  listening  to  the  argument,  whether  to  view  the  sub- 
ject in  all  its  bearings  and  its  results,  clover-leaf  tatting  is  really  supe- 
rior to  other  varieties  of  the  same  species,  and  if  the  report  is  credible 
and  worthy  of  full  belief,  that  over-skirts  are  to  be  worn  longer  —  after 
listening  to  this  conversation  for  hours,  the  advent  into  the  room  of 
such  a  woman  as  Hope  Winston  is  hailed  by  these  masculine  admirers 
of  feminine  weakness  with  a  relief  that,  considering  their  belief,  is  mar- 
velous. 

The  little  village  of  Livingstone  Manor  was  frequented  in  summer 
by  sojourners  from  the  neighboring  city.  Hope  could  never  be  anything 
but  gentle  and  womanly ;  but  when  Professor  Caldwell,  at  their  little 
picnics  and  parties,  spoke  to  her  about  that  last  thing  of  Ruskin,  "  Have 
you  seen  it  ?  Isn't  it  beautiful,  grand  ? "  how  her  eyes  shone  and  her 
face  kindled.  Whereat,  old  Mrs.  Moss,  looking  on,  and  who  had  a  dim 
impression  that  Ruskin  was  a  new  sort  of  winter  apple,  greatly  won- 
dered and  greatly  disapproved  of  Hope's  glowing  enthusiasm  over  it. 
Carl  Doran,  the  young  artist,  and  Charles  Hermann,  who  had  a  true 
poet's  soul,  if  not  his  utterance,  found  a  few  hours  of  Hope's  society 


BELINDA,  CAROLINE,  AND  HENRIETTA.  245 

more  inspiring  than  any  sunset  or  scenery.  Talking  with  them  of 
books,  old  and  new  poets,  and,  most  of  all,  of  that  most  marvelous 
book  of  poetry,  old,  yet  forever  new,  illustrated  as  only  its  author  can 
illustrate  it,  with  wonderful  sea  views,  the  glint  of  blue  waves  on  sil- 
very beaches,  sunny  valleys,  mountain  gloom  and  grandeur,  white 
clouds,  and  mosses,  and  all  the  endless,  endless  pictures,  changeless,  yet 
forever  changing,  old  as  creation,  yet  forever  new. 

They  found,  when  they  left  Hope,  that  the  world  seemed  better  and 
brighter  and  they  more  hopeful. 

We  have  all  met  people  who  depress  us,  who  make  life  seem  to  us 
like  a  gloomy  march  down  to  a  dark  grave,  who  contract  the  world  to 
suit  their  own  narrow  souls,  hang  it  in  leaden  drapery,  sackcloth,  and 
gloom.  Take  an  impressible,  sensitive  person,  and  subject  him  or  her 
to  constant  companionship  with  such,  and  life  becomes  a  dirge, 
instead  of  the  glorious  anthem  it  should  be.  But,  thank  Heaven,  there 
are  those  who  inspire  us  with  a  new  faith  and  trust  in  God  and  human- 
ity, in  the  sacredness  and  divinity  of  our  own  life,  in  whose  presence 
the  world  grows  larger  and  nobler,  full  of  a  boundless  possibility  for 
good.  Hope  was  one  of  these.  I  think  Mrs.  Browning  must  have  been 
thinking  of  such  a  woman  as  Hope  when  she  spoke  of  one : 

"Who  never  found  fault  with  you;  never  implied 
Your  wrong  by  her  right;  yet  men  by  her  side 
Grew  nobler,  girls  purer,  as  all  through  the  town 
The  children  were  gladder  who  pulled  at  her  gown." 

Now  Belinda,  Caroline,  and  Henrietta  did  not  care  particularly 
about  the  earnest  respect  and  admiration  Hope  received  from  the  gen- 
tlemen I  have  named,  for  Professor  Caldwell  had  a  wife  who  loved  and 
made  a  particular  pet  of  Hope.  Carl  Doran  was  engaged  to  a  young 
lady  of  Boston,  Hope's  schoolmate  and  warm  friend.  And  as  for 
Charles  Hermann,  Hope  had  refused  him,  but  retained  him  as  a  close 
friend  still,  for  with  such  a  woman  as  Hope  it  is  possible  for  a  lover  to 


246  BELINDA,   CAROLINE,  AND  HENRIETTA. 

change  to  a  friend,  but  never  to  an  enemy.  But  when  the  young  minis- 
ter, whose  favor  they  more  desired  than  any  other  sublunary  thing, 
forsook  their  society  for  that  of  Hope,  Belinda  remarked  to  Hen- 
rietta, "  It  is  aggravating,  considering  what  we  have  done  for  him, 
and  Hope  has  never  worked  a  single  stitch  for  him." 

When  Belinda  made  this  remark,  the  young  minister  had  been 
with  them  some  six  months,  and  each  of  the  young  ladies,  Belinda, 
Caroline,  and  Henrietta,  had  presented  him  with  two  pairs  of  slippers, 
lavish  in  embroidery,  in  which  the  high  price  of  zephyr  was  accounted 
as  nothing.  They  had  also  given  him  a  cashmere  dressing-gown,  silk- 
lined,  glorious  with  more  colors  than  Joseph's  coat.  It  was,  indeed,  as 
Belinda  said,  "  aggravating." 

Now,  after  having  said  that  "  Hope  isn't  any  better  than  she 
should  be,"  of  course  it  became  their  first  duty  and  privilege  to  prove 
the  fact ;  for  it  is  an  impulse  of  our  nature,  when  we  have  made  an 
assertion,  to  endeavor  to  substantiate  it  with  all  the  proof  possible. 
But  they  found  it  exceedingly  difficult  to  do  so  in  this  case,  so  quiet, 
and  ladylike,  and  exemplary  was  Hope's  conduct,  and  so  well  beloved 
was  she  by  all  her  friends'  except,  indeed,  those  who  were  aggravated 
by  the  young  minister's  attentions  to  her.  But  they  were  watchful, 
hopeful,  that  at  last  their  zealous  search  after  some  suspicious  circum- 
stance Avould  be  rewarded  with  success. 

I  think  Hope,  sensitive,  tender-hearted  Hope,  could  hardly  fail, 
with  her  woman's  intuitions,  to  discern  their  state  of  mind  toward  her, 
and  to  be  annoyed  by  their  petty  hints  and  malice.  But  above  the  low 
grounds,  where  buzzing  insects  sting,  and  darken  the  atmosphere,  and 
vex  the  soul  with  their  petty,  meaningless  whirlings,  and  circles,  and 
tiny  stabs,  there  is  a  calmer,  purer  air,  that  blows  from  diviner  realms, 
sweet  with  glimpses  of  heavenlier  skies.  Hope  breathed  the  higher, 
clearer  air  habitually.  And  so,  as  she  had  always  done,  she  carried  her 
sweet  face,  like  sunshine,  into  the  homes  of  those  who  loved  her,  prized 


BELINDA,  CAROLINE,  AND  HENRIETTA. 


247 


her  as  she  deserved,  and  like  one  of  God's  angels  into  the  abodes  of 
want  and  dolor. 

The  Witch  of  Endor  was  once  permitted  to  speak  to  Saul ;  and 
when  success  at  last  crowned  Belinda,  Caroline,  and  Henrietta,  these 


BELINDA  READS  THE  LETTER. 


earnest  seekers  after  darkness,  it  was  only  proper  that  Belinda  should 

be  the  vehicle  through  which  this  darkness  should  be  made  manifest. 

She  was  passing  Judge  Winston's.     It  was  a  lovely  spring  day, 

and  they  were  cleaning  house ;    as  she  passed,  she  saw  a  housemaid 


248  BELINDA,  CAROLINE,  AND  HENRIETTA. 

framed  in  the  empty  window  of  Hope's  room,  like  a  full-length  picture 
of  Labor,  washing  the  window-casing. 

At  this  moment  a  paper,  evidently  part  of  a  letter,  came  fluttering 
along  in  the  light  wind,  over  the  syringas,  under  a  clump  of  lilacs,  over 
a  bed  of  fragrant  English  violets,  down  under  the  maples,  through  the 
palings,  directly  to  Belinda's  feet.  Here  a  clump  of  tall,  delicate 
grasses,  through  some  loving  kinship  of  nature  to  Hope,  would  have 
fain  concealed  it.  But  Belinda's  fingers,  though  not  so  spotless,  were 
stronger.  She  took  it  up,  and  read : 

"Dearest  Hope, — My  wife  has  gone  to-day,  visiting  some  gossiping  crone  just 
like  herself,  and  I  improve  the  welcome  solitude  to  write  to  you,  my  love,  my  dar- 
ling." 

It  was  quite  a  long  letter,  filled  with  passionate  avowals  of  love,  a 
love  that  was  a  crime. 

As  Belinda  read  this  letter,  she  was,  to  outward  appearances,  an 
ordinary  young  lady,  with  elaborately  frizzed  hair.  Nothing  demoniac 
in  her  appearance.  But  I  think  that  He  who  reads  our  hearts  discov- 
ered in  her  a  strong  likeness  to  that  evil  spirit  who  rejoices  in  all 
human  sin. 

Belinda  was  happy.  I  think  Satan  himself  could  not  be  happier 
than  she  in  this  crime  she  had  discovered.  True,  it  looked  more  like  a 
woman's  writing  than  it  did  like  a  man's ;  but  that  was  only  an  added 
proof  of  her  guilt ;  it  was  a  disguised  hand. 

There  was  a  sewing-circle  that  afternoon.  Hope  was  away  for  a 
few  days,  visiting  an  aunt,  and  her  mother's  unusual  work  would  be 
likely  to  keep  her  at  home.  Belinda  was  happy.  She  went  to  the  sew- 
ing-circle early.  There  were  but  few  present  beside  Belinda,  Caroline, 
and  Henrietta,  and  their  mothers.  As  is  usual  on  these  bloodless  bat- 
tle-fields, needles  and  tongues  were  sharpened  meet  for  the  occasion, 
and  moved  rapidly.  When  a  woman  has  a  secret  to  keep,  she  yearns  to 
have  other  women  help  her  keep  it.  Belinda  was  anxious,  but  still  she 


BELINDA,  CAROLINE,  AND  HENRIETTA.  249 

wanted  to  restrain  her  triumph  to  an  appearance  of  moderation,  and 
not  seem  abrupt  and  over-anxious  to  complete  Hope's  downfall.  Many 
absent  women — and  house-cleaning  made  many  absent — were  dealt 
with  as  was  considered  proper  and  needful,  but  still  Belinda  spoke  not. 
But  at  last  the  conversation  took  a  turn  that  gradually  led  to  her  com- 
munication. There  was  a  new  book  just  out,  "  The  Story  of  a  Wrecked 
Life,"  that  had  proven  to  be  more  than  a  success.  There  was  an  enthu- 
siasm of  admiration  concerning  it,  and  curiosity  concerning  its  author, 
for  it  was  published  anonymously.  Most  of  those  present  had  read  it, 
and  all  admired  it,  not  that  all  had  heart  and  soul  enough  to  appreciate 
it,  but  because  it  was  the  fashion,  and  therefore  the  proper  thing  to 
admire  it. 

Mrs.  Beazely,  whose  sister  was  housekeeper  at  the  Manor  House, 
said  to  Belinda,  that  the  minister  was  dreadful  took  with  it.  He 
thought  there  was  a  freshness  and  originality  about  it  not  often  met ; 
and  he  said  that  "  whoever  the  writer  is,  she  is  a  true  and  earnest 
woman,  who  lives  for  some  purpose  in  life." 

"  Yes,  it  contains  a  good  deal  of  religious  truth,"  said  Henrietta 
Cole.  "  But  Hope  Hartly  is  a  very  poor  character." 

Then  Belinda  felt  that  her  hour  had  come.  She  ros,e  equal  to  the 
occasion.  One  mysterious,  meaning  glance  she  gave  to  the  assembled 
women,  then  she  said,  in  the  short,  terse  sentences  a  deep  purpose  gives, 
"  I  guess  there  are  other  bad  characters  besides  her." 

They  all  felt  that  this  remark  of  Belinda  was  not  a  trifling  one, 
made  simply  to  propel  the  car  of  conversation.  Woman's  unerring 
intuition  taught  them  that  here  was  some  other  women  to  be  dealt  with 
by  them.  They  asked  her  at  once,  who  she  meant?  who  was  it? 

Now  Belinda,  like  other  wise  men  and  women,  on  finding  herself 
the  object  of  first  importance,  did  not  reveal  her  meaning  immediately, 
and  by  so  doing  come  down  upon  a  level  with  the  rest.  She  played  with 
their  curiosity  as  a  cat  plays  with  a  captive  mouse.  Finally,  after  she 


250  BELINDA,  CAROLINE,  AND  HENRIETTA. 

had  goaded  them  nearly  to  desperation,  she  said,  with  complacency: 
"  I  guess  there  are  other  bad  characters  by  the  name  of  Hope." 
And  so  the  truth  came  out.     The  letter  was  produced,  set  upon  by 

this  voluntary  inquest,  and  Hope  was  unanimously  condemned.     And, 


"IT  DON'T  LOOK  WELL." 

as  is  usual  with  a  lost  cause,  divers  enormities  were  brought  against 
her,  which  the  speakers  had  heretofore  passed  unnoticed  in  their  blind- 
ness. Old  Mrs.  Cole  thought  "  it  never  has  looked  well  for  her  to  be  a 
riding  off  so  much  out  in  the  country  on  her  pony.  It  might  be  all 
right,  but  it  don't  look  well." 


BELINDA,  CAROLINE,  AND  HENRIETTA.  251 

"  That  is  so,"  said  old  Mrs.  Moss ;  and  it  is  believed  that  nearly 
all  the  other  women  repeated,  "  That  is  so." 

Old  Mrs.  Winters,  who  lived  on  the  borders  of  the  woodland,  said, 
"  Time  and  time  again,  I  have  ketched  her  a  comin'  from  the  woods 
with  her  apron  full  of  moss  and  ferns,  and  such  ordinary  trash.  If  she 
wanted  posys,  why  didn't  she  come  to  me  for  merrygoolds  and  China 
Oysters  ? " 

This  speech  was  well  received  by  every  woman  in  the  room. 

Then  old  Mrs.  Moss  said  that,  "  though  I  have  always  considered 
Hope  a  likely  girl,  still  I  think  she  has  too  many  letters  to  look  well 
for  a  woman,  sometimes  as  many  as  three  at  one  time,  I  have  been 
told.  And,  though  she  always  seems  pleasant  enough,  and  friendly, 
still  I  believe  in  my  soul  Hope  feels  above  her  neighbors,  for  she  never 
seems  to  take  half  the  comfort  a  visitin'  'em  as  she  does  when  she 
is  with  them  stuck-up  city  friends  of  hers." 

"  Stuck  up "  was  Mrs.  Moss's  synonym  for  intellect,  culture,  and 
refinement. 

Before  that  charmed  circle  broke  up,  a  plan  was  laid,  of  which, 
although  no  officers  were  named  and  lawfully  appointed,  Belinda  Moss 
might  be  considered  president,  Henrietta  Cole  vice-president,  and  Caro- 
line Winters  secretary.  They  were  not  content  with  having  the  fact  of 
Hope's  iniquities  published  abroad.  They  yearned  to  humiliate  her 
publicly ;  and,  simply  as  a  matter  of  justice,  it  must  be  before  the 
young  minister. 

The  village  choir  was  very  small  at  present,  owing  to  the  sickness 
of  some  of  the  members  and  the  absence  of  others.  Indeed,  at  the 
present  time,  the  three  young  ladies  we  have  named  and  Hope  consti- 
tuted all  the  female  element,  the  male  members  being  the  three  broth- 
ers of  Henrietta  and  the  father  and  brother  of  Belinda.  They  would 
all  refuse  to  sing  the  next  Sabbath,  and  have  it  plainly  understood  that 
they  would  not  sing  in  the  same  choir  with  Hope  Winston. 


252  BELINDA,  CAROLINE,  AND  HENRIETTA. 

They  guessed  that  would  open  the  young  minister's  eyes.  They 
guessed  that  would  take  the  "  scales  off  of  'em."  Possibly,  after  this, 
lie  would  think  there  was  some  other  woman  in  the  world  beside  Hope 
Winston ;  he  didn't  seem  to  think  there  was  now.  And  as  for  her, 
wouldn't  she  be  so  ashamed  and  mortified  that  she  wouldn't  know 
where  to  put  her  head  ? 

The  next  Sabbath  rose  calm  and  cloudless,  and  fair  and  serene  as 
the  morn.  Hope  went  up  the  little  flight  of  steps  into  the  old-fashioned 
gallery.  She  was  rather  late,  though.  Her  innocent  little  heart  rather 
condemned  her  for  it,  for  she  was  not  belated  by  any  sickness  or  calam- 
ity. She  had  only  returned  home  from  her  visit  late  the  night  before, 
and  had  overslept  herself.  So,  when  she  reached  the  church,  she  found 
the  service  already  begun.  She  waited  in  the  porch  till  the  prayer  was 
ended,  and  then  she  went  up  the  little  steps  into  the  gallery.  Not  a 
soul  was  there,  only  the  little  tow-headed  boy  who  blowed  the  organ. 
The  young  minister  looked  up,  and  his  eyes  met  hers.  He  hesitated  for 
a  moment,  and  then,  evidently  wishing  to  save  her  any  embarrassment, 
he  opened  his  MSS.,  and  commenced  his  sermon. 

What  was  the  matter  ?  Had  some  sudden  pestilence  taken  off  all 
the  choir?  Hope  looked  over  the  railing  of  the  gallery.  There  was 
Caroline  Winter's  blue  bonnet  below,  Belinda's  and  Henrietta's  white 
straw  ones.  The  male  members  were  also  living,  and  apparently  in 
sound  health.  In  common  times,  Hope  would  not  whisper  in  church ; 
but  now  curiosity  got  the  better  of  her,  and  she  asked  Johnny  Watts 
if  he  knew  why  the  choir  were  not  in  their  places. 

Johnny  loved  her — all  children  loved  Hope  —  and  he,  loyal  soul, 
burning  with  indignation,  told  her  all,  or  all  he  knew,  which  was 
enough  to  prove  to  her  that  gossip  had  done  its  worst.  All  through  the 
sermon,  and  it  was  no  common  one,  I  assure  you  —  Paul  Livingstone 
never  preached  a  common  sermon — Hope  sat  with  her  head  bent  down 
upon  her  clasped  hands.  But  after  the  last  prayer,  as  the  young  minis- 


BELINDA,   CAROLINE,  AND  HENRIETTA. 


253 


ter  looked  up  inquiringly  again  into  the  gallery,  Hope  rose  and  walked 
to  the  old  organ,  and  seated  herself.  The  choir  were  wont  to  select  the 
closing  piece.  Johnny,  who  felt  that  he  could  show  his  respectful  hom- 
age and  reverent  affection  for  Hope  only  by  blowing  his  loudest  and 
strongest,  put  forth  such  giant  strength  that  the  organ  pealed  forth  in 

clarion  tones,  filling  the 
church  with  its  melody. 
But  above  it  Hope's  won- 
derfully sweet  voice  rose, 
singing : 

"  The  Lord  is  my  shep- 
herd, I  shall  not  want. 
He  maketh  me  to  lie  down 
in  green  pastures.  He 

leadeth  me  beside  the  still 
\ 

waters." 

Many  of  the  congre- 
gation thought  that  there 
had  been  some  misunder- 
standing, such  as  is  not 
unusual  in  choirs ;  and 
such  applauded  Hope's 
bravery  in  doing  her  duty 
regardless  of  all  others. 
But  others  thought,  and 
the  young  minister  among  them,  that  Hope  gave  these  beautiful  words 
a  meaning  and  a  power  they  had  never  had  before.  Such  a  perfect, 
child-like  trust  in  the  Good  Shepherd,  such  an  earnest  faith  that  she 
"  should  not  want "  anything  needful  for  her,  and  that  there  was  no 
possibility  of  her  being  harmed  by  anything  while  His  hand  was 
leading  her. 


HOPE   AT   THE    ORGAN. 


254  BELINDA,  CAROLINE,  AND  HENRIETTA. 

As  she  came  down  out  of  the  gallery  and  faced  the  congregation, 
all  that  her  voice  had  expressed  was  written  in  her  countenance.  All 
who  looked  into  that  pure,  spiritual  face  knew  that  her  Lord  was  indeed 
leading  her  by  still  waters,  for  their  peace  was  reflected  in  her  eyes. 

The  young  minister  was  beset,  as  usual,  by  Belinda,  Caroline,  and 
Henrietta,  and  sundry  other  young  female  sheep  of  his  flock.  But,  as 
he  caught  sight  of  Hope's  pale,  glowing  face,  he  left  them  with  a  hasty 
apology,  and  went  up  to  her,  greeting  her  with  more  respect  and  defer- 
ence than  he  had  ever  shown  her  before.  Talking  to  her  still,  he 
passed  out  of  the  church  porch,  and  left  her  only  at  her  own  door. 

Belinda  thought,  "  after  all  that  has  been  said  about  Hope,  after 
all  that  has  been  proved  about  her,  it  is  a  shameful  piece  of  business, 
and  aggravating."  It  is  supposed  that  Caroline  and  Henrietta  enter- 
tained the  same  opinion.  But,  although  this  plan  had  failed,  and  Hope 
was  not  only  not  humiliated  in  the  eyes  of  the  young  minister  and  the 
world,  but  had  actually  triumphed  over  them  and  turned  her  ignominy 
into  victory,  yet,  "  Thank  fortune ! "  they  said,  "  we  can  come  right 
out  and  speak  plain,  and  we  will.  Next  Tuesday  night  the  letter 
shall  be  produced,  and  Hope  shall  see  it,  and  the  young  minister 
shall  see  it,  and  see  then  how  she  will  feel — see  then  if  she  can 
lift  up  her  head." 

So  spoke  justice,  in  the  form  of  Belinda  Moss,  not  as  commonly 
painted,  with  one  eye  bandaged,  but  with  both  eyes  wide  open,  looking 
into  the  sympathizing  orbs  of  Caroline  and  Henrietta. 

On  Tuesday  evening  there  was  to  l^e  a  meeting  for  a  charitable  pur- 
pose, and  Hope  and  her  mother  were  not  to  be  hindered  from  doing 
their  duty  by  any  fear  of  what  man,  or  rather  woman,  should  do  unto 
them.  Belinda  went  early,  and  she  had  the  letter  in  her  possession,  but 
Caroline  and  Henrietta  were  also  suffered  to  share  in  the  honor  of  its 
possession,  and  were  regarded  with  some  jealousy  by  a  couple  of  female 
cousins  of  Caroline,  who  were  present,  who  could  boast  no  further  con- 


BELINDA,  CAROLINE,  AND  HENRIETTA.  255 

nection  with  it,  only  they  had  read  it,  as  had  all  of  those  present. 
With  Hope  and  her  mother  came  the  young  minister,  which  so  worked 
upon  Belinda's  excitable  feelings  that  she  went  directly  up  to  Hope, 
and,  presenting  the  letter  to  her  like  a  musket,  asked  her,  with  the 
voice  of  an  avenger  and  the  mien  of  a  Nemesis : 

"  Is  that  your  property  ?  " 

Hope  took  the  letter,  glanced  at  it,  and  then  said  simply : 

"  Yes,  it  is  my  property." 

"  I  told  you  so,"  said  Belinda,  looking  round  triumphantly.  And  it 
is  believed  that  Henrietta  and  Caroline  also  said,  "  I  told  you  so." 

Hope's  face  was  calm  as  ever,  only  there  was  a  pink  flush  on  each 
cheek,  that  made  her  look  more  beautiful  than  usual,  even.  She  folded 
up  the  paper,  and  leaned  her  hand  on  the  back  of  a  chair  by  which  she 
was  standing,  and  commenced  to  say — and  her  voice  was  low  and 
sweet  as  ever: 

"  In  explaining  how  this  letter  came  in  my  possession  — " 

But,  before  she  could  add  another  word,  the  young  minister  came 
forward  and  laid  his  own  hand  tenderly,  protectingly  upon  Hope's,  and 
said,  in  very  distinct  tones,  as  he  turned  his  handsome  face  toward  the 
inquisitors  : 

"Hope  —  Miss  Winston  ha's  promised  me  to  let  me  care  for  her 
through  all  her  life  and  mine,  and  so  anything  that  affects  her  cannot 
fail  to  be  of  interest  to  me.  Whatever  annoyance  or  trial  you  may  see 
fit  to  bring  upon  her,  it  is  my  privilege  and  my  happiness  to  share 
it  with  her." 

If  Belinda's  dress  had  not  been  made  of  the  thickest  of  poplin,  it 
must  needs  have  given  way  under  the  tremendous  muffled  beatings  of 
her  heart.  She  was,  for  the  first  time  in  the  memory  of  man,  beyond 
words.  But  the  vice-president  came  nobly  to  her  relief. 

"  Read   that  letter,   and   see   what  she   receives  from   a  married 


256  BELINDA,   CAROLINE,  AND  HENRIETTA. 

The  young  minister  turned  to  Hope.     She  smiled. 

"  I  will  explain  it,  Paul,"  she  said. 

"No,  no,"  he  interrupted,  " you  shall  not  explain.  Do  you  think 
I  could  doubt  you,  Hope  ?  " 

But  she  continued,  gently  :  — 

"  I  think  it  will  be  better,  and  set  the  minds  of  our  friends  here 
more  at  rest.  But  in  order  to  explain  how  this  letter  came  to  be 
written,  I  shall  have  to  reveal  a  little  matter  that  I  have  kept  secret 
for  reasons  which  it  is  needless  to  name " 

"  Yes,  needless  to  name,"  said  Belinda.  "  You  dassent  name 
them,  that's  it." 

"  Yes,"  says  the  vice-president,  "  she  dassent" 

And  the  voice  of  the  secretary  sounded  from  the  other  side  of 
the  room,  like  a  distant  echo,  "  she  dassent" 

The  young  minister's  face  flushed  red,  and  he  was  about  to  speak, 
but  Hope  detained  him  by  saying :  — 

"Well,  then,  if  you  insist  upon  it,  I  will  explain  fully.  You 
have,  most  of  you,  read  'The  Story  of  a  Wrecked  Life!'  I  think,  in 
reading  that  book,  you  will  find  a  letter  written  to  the  wretched 
heroine,  Hope  Hartly,  in  nearly  the  same  words  as  this.  I  am  the 
author  of  that  book.  I  wrote  it  for  a  purpose ; "  and  Hope's  face 
lighted  up,  as  it  did  in  the  old  church  as  she  sang,  "  The  Lord  is  my 
Shepherd." 

Her  voice  grew  a  little  tremulous,  in  speaking  of  these  things, 
so  near  her  heart.  But  she  went  on :  — 

"It  seemed  to  me  that  I  could  do  a  little  good  by  writing  it. 
The  world  seemed  to  me  to  be  so  full  of  sin  and  wretchedness ;  my 
heart  ached  so  for  God's  erring  and  sorrowful ;  I  wanted  to  do  some- 
thing, write  something,  that  would  help  these  poor  creatures  to  re- 
member that  they  were  God's  children  still,  and  Heaven  was  still 
possible  to  them.  I  thought,  perhaps,  if  I  wrote  lovingly,  prayerfully, 


BELINDA,    CAROLINE,   AND  HENRIETTA. 


257 


as  in  His  name,  they  would  listen,  and  it  seemed  to  me  to  be  more 
sacred,  more  as  if  it  were,  indeed,  His  message,  if  no  one  but  God 
and  the  angels  knew  who  wrote  it." 

Here  Hope  seemed  suddenly  to  remember  that  to  most  of  her 
hearers  her  generous  enthusiasm  was  an  unknown  tongue.  So  she 
finished,  by  saying,  in  a  few  words,  "  this  letter,  which  I  changed 
some  and  re-wrote,  was  doubtless  thrown  out  of  my  room  in  house- 
cleaning,  with  other  old  papers." 

That  night,  on  her  return  from  the  meeting,  Hope  stood  upon 
the  portico.  She  had  turned  to  bid  her  companion  good-night.  Her 


THE  THREE  DRABBLED  DAMSELS. 

white  scarf,  which  she  had  thrown  over  her  head,  had  fallen  back,  and 
the  moon,  shining  out  just  at  that  moment,  fell  full  upon  her  beauti- 
ful face,  her  large  inspired  eyes. 

Paul  was  standing  upon  the  step  beneath  her,  and  as  he  looked 
up  to  her,  holding  her  hand  in  his,  he  said :  - 

"  Hope,  if  I  do  not  respect  you  more,  and  love  you  better,  after 
to-night,  it  is  because  I  could  not." 

As  they  stood  thus,  three  drabbled  damsels  passed  by,  in  a  mel- 
ancholy procession.  When  I  say  drabbled,  I  speak  not  unadvisedly, 
17 


258 


BELINDA,  CAROLINE,  AND  HENRIETTA. 


for  a  light  rain  had  fallen  during  the  evening,  and,  in  their  gloomy 
state  of  mind,  these  damsels  had  forgotten  to  hold  up  their  dresses. 

The  limp,  water-soaked  trails  of  muslin  and  poplin  were  not  bad 
exponents  of  their  feelings.  They  felt  dejected,  low-spirited,  unhappy. 

But  let  us  hope  that  as  our  trials,  and  sometimes  even  our  errors, 
are  transformed  by  a  benignant  Providence  to  stepping-stones,  by  which 
we  rise  to  a  higher  life — let  us  hope  that  Belinda,  Caroline,  and  Hen- 
rietta, by  this  experience,  became  wiser  in  that  divine  wisdom  of 
charity,  that  "  thinketh  no  evil,  rejoiceth  not  in  iniquity,  but  rejoieeth 
in  the  truth." 


MY   HEART   WAS    IN   MY   THROAT. 


•' 


AM  confident  Mr.  Wiggins  never  had  told  so 
long  a  story  in  my  presence  as  he  did  when  I 
announced  my  determination  of  answering  an 
advertisement  for  a  governess.  He  and  his  wife  were  opposed  to  my 
leaving  them ;  and  this  story  was  concerning  a  young  girl  who  went  as 
governess,  and  died  from  over-work.  But  the  story  he  told  as  he  was 
carrying  me  to  the  cars  even  exceeded  that  in  length.  The  story  was 
just  five  miles  long,  for  we  reached  the  depot  and  its  conclusion  at  the 
same  time.  Nor  did  we  come  a  second  too  soon.  Mr.  Wiggins  had 
driven  at  a  snail's  pace  for  the  last  mile,  in  order  that  he  might  finish 
his  narrative.  The  station-master,  as  we  drew  up,  bade  us  make  haste, 
if  we  didn't  want  to  be  left ;  and  soon  the  last  words  were  spoken,  and 
I  was  alone ;  for  the  loneliest  forest  is  not  comparable  to  the  loneliness 
of  a  great  crowd  ;  for  dear  Nature's  face  is  always  kindly  to  those  who 
love  her. 

I  felt  utterly  desolate  and  friendless  as  I  sank  back  in  my  seat  in 
the  cars.  I  was  an  orphan,  with  few  friends,  and  was  going  out  as  a 
governess.  In  my  depressed  state,  that  morning,  the  name  of  my  new 
employer  seemed  more  awe-inspiring  and  aristocratic  than  ever  before. 

(261) 


262  LITTLE  CHRISTIE'S   WILL. 

"Claude  Huntington."  I  felt  instinctively  that  he  would  be  a  tall,  pom- 
pous, elderly  man,  with  piercing,  coal-black  eyes  and  fierce  whiskers, 
colored  to  a  jetty  hue.  And  "  Christabelle,"  the  daughter,  —  how  could 
I,  plain  Eva  Norris,  ever  make  myself  useful  or  agreeable  to  a  "  Christa- 
belle Huntington."  He  had  mentioned  in  his  last  letter  that  Elfrida  Win- 
throp,  his  cousin  and  ward,  was  an  inmate  of  his  house.  He  thought  it 
would  be  pleasant  for  me  to  know  I  was  to  have  a  young  lady  compan- 
ion. But  every  name  struck  terror  to  my  heart.  I  felt,  at  that  lonely 
moment,  like  the  smallest  of  Gulliver's  Lilliputians,  setting  out  alone 
for  the  country  of  the  giants.  I  took  Mr.  Huntington' s  letter  out  of 
my  pocket,  and  was  forlornly  reading  it  over,  when  suddenly  a  new 
atmosphere  of  warmth  and  brightness  seemed  to  enwrap  me,  coming 
from  what  wondrous  realm  I  knew  not.  But  looking  up,  I  became  con- 
scious of  the  earnest  gaze  of  a  pair  of  dark-blue  eyes.  Of  course,  the 
owner  of  those  eyes,  a  very  handsome  young  man,  averted  them  at 
once,  as  I  became  conscious  of  his  earnest  scrutiny.  I  hold  that  friends 
are  not  made,  but  discovered.  Friends  of  our  soul,  —  the  world  may 
have  been  between  us  all  our  days,  but  when  we  meet  we  know  each 
other.  I  put  the  letter  witli  its  green  and  gold  monogram  into  my 
pocket,  and  drew  my  veil  over  my  face  again.  But  the  old  dreary  lone- 
liness had  gone.  Absurd,  wasn't  it  ?  But  then  this  strange  old  world 
is  so  full  of  wonderful  things,  that  if  you  set  yourself  about  trying  to 
explain  all  its  mysteries,  you  will  have  no  time  for  anything  else. 

At  the  next  station  a  half-drunken  man  came  into  the  cars.  He 
was  dressed  like  a  gentleman,  and  probably  was  one  when  sober.  He 
came  up  to  the  seat  where  I  was,  and  paused  before  it,  as  if  intending 
to  seat  himself  beside  me,  But  I  had  only  time  to  give  one  frightened 
glance,  when  the  blue-eyed,  handsome  stranger  opposite  left  his  seat, 
and,  laying  his  hand  on  the  man's  shoulder,  said,  "  Take  my  seat, 
colonel,  I  am  tired  of  sitting,"  And  half  impelled  by  the  firm  hand 
upon  his  shoulder,  the  tipsy  colonel  sank  into  the  vacant  seat.  One 


LITTLE  CHRISTIE'S   WILL. 


263 


look  of  gratitude  I  gave  my  unknown  friend,  who  walked  forward  and 
stood  a  few  minutes  by  the  car-door,  and  then  passed  out  on  the  plat- 
form. 

I  thought  no  one  left  the  cars  but  myself  at  the  little  wayside  sta- 
tion ;  and  as  there  was  but  one  carriage  in  sight,  an  elegant  one,  I  fan- 
cied it  might  have  been 
sent  for  me;  but  one 


"TAKE  MY   SEAT,    COLONEL.1 


the  presumptuous 
belief.  He  looked 
over  me,  through 
me,  as  if  I  were 
an  incorporeal  sub- 
stance, through 
which  landscapes  might  be  enjoyed.  He  was  very  grand  and  dignified 
and  I  felt  very  small  and  insignificant.  But  even  as  I  looked  he  leaped 
down  and  opened  the  carriage-door;  and  at  that  moment  I  heard  a 
light,  quick  step  behind  me,  and,  glancing  round,  there  stood  my  hand- 
some, blue-eyed  stranger.  He  lifted  his  hat  as  he  approached,  and  said, 
as  courteously  as  if  I  were  a  queen : 

"  Pardon  me,  but  I  think  you  are  Miss  Norris  ?  " 

I  bowed  affirmatively. 


264  LITTLE  CHRISTIE'S   WILL. 

''Allow  me  to  introduce  myself  as  Mr.  Huntington,  your  corres- 
pondent. I  am  very  glad  you  came  earlier  than  we  expected  you.  We 
looked  for  you  to-morrow." 

"  I  thought  you  wrote  for  me  to  come  on  the  thirteenth." 

"  I  dare  say  the  mistake  was  mine,"  said  he.  "  My  writing,  I  fear, 
might  be  improved  by  judicious  training." 

He  assisted  me  into  the  carriage,  and,  after  leaving  some  directions 
about  having  my  trunk  sent  on  immediately,  he  entered  himself,  and 
the  prancing  grays  dashed  off  through  the  quiet  country  road.  For  a 
few  minutes  we  drove  on  in  silence,  and  then  my  companion,  looking  at 
me  with  his  peculiarly  earnest  gaze,  said : 

"  How  do  you  suppose  that  I  knew  you,  Miss  Norris,  the  minute  I 
saw  you  on  the  cars,  though  we  didn't  expect  you  to-day  ?  Something 
told  me,  instinctively,  who  you  were.  I  don't  think  I  ever  had  such  an 
impression  before  in  regard  to  any  one.  Perhaps  we  were  friends  a 
thousand  years  ago,  in  some  former  state  of  existence.  Can  your  phi- 
losophy account  for  it  in  any  other  way  ? " 

"  Perhaps  you  recognized  your  letter  that  I  was  reading,"  said  I, 
prosaically. 

"  That  only  confirmed  the  impression ;  I  had  the  conviction  be- 
fore." 

Perhaps  I  showed  in  my  face  my  desire  to  change  the  subject,  for 
he  commenced  to  talk  very  pleasantly  about  the  country  through  which 
we  were  passing.  And  then  he  told  me  about  my  pupil.  He  said  she 
was  an  invalid,  through  an  injury  to  her  spine,  received  when  an  infant ; 
and  so  he  did  not  want  her  to  study  any  more  than  her  health  would 
permit.  But  his  business  took  him  from  home  a  good  deal,  and  he 
wanted  some  one  he  could  trust  to  leave  her  with. 

"  She  is  sadly  spoiled,  I  am  afraid,"  said  he ;  "  but  the  doctors  have 
forbidden  all  excitement,  so  we  don't  dare  to  cross  her.  She  is  natu- 
rally very  affectionate ;  but,  from  having  her  own  way  all  the  time,  she 


LITTLE  CHRISTIE'S   WILL. 


265 


has  become  as  imperious  as  a  little  queen.  Three  ladies  have  had  the 
kindness  to  try  to  teach  her ;  but  they  failed  to  suit  her,  and  I  didn't 
dare  to  keep  them  after  they  became  disagreeable  to  her.  I  felt  that  I 
ought  to  tell  you  this  before  you  entered  upon  your  duties,  because, 
although  I  think  you  will  please  her,  and  you  will  be  good  friends,  still, 
if  you  should  fail,  believe  me,  I  shall  know  it  is  not  your  fault." 

I  thanked  him  for  his  kindness,  but,  mentally,  I  saw  myself  follow- 
ing my  predecessors  out  of  Huntingtoii  Manor. 

It  was  a  large  mansion,  of  light-gray  stone,  fairly  embowered  in 
foliage  and  bloom.  The  grounds  were  spacious  and  beautiful,  and,  as 
we  drove  up  the  long  avenue,  I  could  catch  a  glimpse,  through  openings 
in  the  green  shade,  of  summer-houses,  fountains,  and  statues.  As  we 
passed  up  the  long  flight  of  white  marble  steps  into  the  grand  hall,  Mr. 
Huntingtoii  turned  to  me,  and  said,  with  a  smile: 

"  Welcome 


Manor,  Miss 
then,  calling  a 
rected  him  to 
room.  I  was 
this,  for  I  want- 
some  changes 
fore  I  met  the 
family.  He  had 
trunk  would  be 
minutes.  But 
en  of?  my  wrap- 
just  bathing  my 
particularly 
ing  girl  came 


JUDITH. 


to  Huntingtoii 
Norris."  And 
servant,  he  di- 
show  me  to  my 
grateful  for 
ed  to  make 
in  my  dress  be- 
ladies  of  the 
said  that  my 
there  in  a  few 
I  had  only  tak- 
pings,  and  was 
face,  when  a 
wakeful  look- 
in  and  said : — 


"  Miss  Christie  wants  to  see  you  at  once.     She  aint  so  well  as  common 
to-day ;  and  she  said  she  couldn't  wait  a  minute,  if  you  please,  mam." 


266 


LITTLE  CHRISTIE'S   WILL. 


I  brushed  my  curls  a  little  back  from  my  face,  and  turned  to  follow 
her,  and,  as  I  did  so,  I  discovered  the  reason  of  her  uncommonly  wide- 
awake, watchful  look.  She  had  no  eye-winkers,  her  eyelids  being  as 
destitute  of  ornament  as  her  little  turned-up  nose. 

She  led  the  way  nearly  the  length  of  the  upper  hall,  and  then 
opened  a  door  into  a  large,  pleasant  room,  and  there,  lying  upon  a  crim- 


son sofa,  was  my 
entered,  she  had 
her  father's 
was  bending 
her  something 
But  she  turned, 
steps,  and  I  saw 
rather  old-look- 
child  of  seven 
very  pretty,  in- 
been  for  a  rath- 
pression  in  the 
and  sensitive 
Huntington  rose 
forward  for  me 
"  You  see 


LITTLE    CHRISTIE. 


pupil.  As  we 
one  arm  around 
neck,  and  he 
over  her,  telling 
in  a  low  voice, 
hearing  our 
a  pretty,  but 
ing  face  for  a 
years.  She  was 
deed,  had  it  not 
er  querulous  ex- 
large,  gray  eyes 
mouth.  Mr. 
and  drew  a  chair 
by  the  sofa, 
you  have  a  very 
pupil,  Miss  Nor- 


impatient    little 

ris.  I  tried  to  persuade  her  to  wait  till  you  were  rested  a  little  ;  but  she 
thought  she  couldn't  possibly  wait  a  minute  longer ;  and  the  queen  must 
be  obeyed,  mustn't  she,  Christie  ?  " 

I  took  her  mite  of  a  white  hand  in  mine,  and  bent  down  and  kissed 
her.  As  I  did  so,  she  took  up  one  of  my  long  curls,  and  drew  it 
through  her  fingers,  and  said,  thoughtfully,  more  to  herself  than  to  us : 

"  I  am  glad  she  is  pretty.  The  last  one  was  awful  in  looks  ;  but  I 
think  she  was  a  Christian." 


LITTLE  CHRISTIE'S   WILL.  267 

"  You  see  she  is  appreciative,  Miss  Norris." 

"What  is  that,  papa?" 

Her  father  explained  the  meaning  of  the  word  to  her,  and  she 
said,  with  a  relieved  look : 

"  Oh,  yes ;  there  are  several  large  words  I  don't  understand  yet." 

Again  she  read  my  face  earnestly,  searchingly ;  and  then  she  said 
again,  as  if  talking  to  herself : 

"  I  think  I  shall  like  her.     I  think  I  shall." 

But  still  there  was  a  doubting  emphasis  on  the  words,  sufficient  to 
discourage  any  undue  hopes.  I  didn't  really  know  what  to  say  next  to 
my  wise  little  pupil ;  but  Mr.  Huntington  relieved  my  embarrassment, 
which  I  think  was  evident,  by  saying : 

"  Now  you  have  seen  your  new  teacher,  Christie,  you  want  her  to 
go  to  her  room  and  rest  a  while  before  dinner,  don't  you  ?  She  must  be 
very  tired." 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  may  go,"  said  she,  with  the  air  of  an  obliging  em- 
press;  and  then  she  said  to  her  father: 

"  Do  you  think,  papa,  you  could  take  me  up  and  rock  me  a  while, 
and  tell  me  a  story  ? " 

"  Certainly  I  can,  and  will."  And  as  I  left  the  room  he  was  telling 
her  about  a  wonderful  fairy  princess. 

At  dinner  I  met  Miss  Winthrop.  She  was  a  calm-eyed  young  lady, 
with  an  evident  consciousness  that  Elfrida  Winthrop  was  certainly 
equal,  if  not  superior,  to  any  other  young  lady  of  her  acquaintance. 
But  I  liked  her  very  much.  She  seemed  so  strong  and  self-reliant,  that, 
to  my  rather  dependent  nature,  she  was  very  fascinating. 

That  evening  I  went  into  Christie's  room  again.  She  was  asleep, 
and  the  watchful-eyed  Judith,  who  I  found  was  Christie's  particular 
attendant,  sat  beside  her. 

I  stood  looking  down  upon  her,  thinking  how  very  beautiful  she 
was  asleep,  for  the  fretful,  discontented  expression  caused  by  her  pain 


268 


LITTLE  CHRISTIE'S   WILL. 


had  all  vanished,  when  she  suddenly  opened  her  eyes  and  looked  up  at 
me.  I  smiled  down  upon  her ;  but  her  upward  glance  into  my  face  was 
as  solemn  and  earnest  as  if  she  was  settling  the  fate  of  a  nation. 

"  Well,"  said  I,  "  what  do  you  think 
of  it  now  ?   Do  you  think  you  can  like  me  ? 


I  STOOD  LOOKING  DOWN  UPON  HER 


I  hope  you  can,  because  I  haven't  any  one 
else  to  love  me,  unless  you  do.' 

"  Where's  your  papa  ? " 

"  He  is  dead." 

"And  your  mamma, — haven't  you  any? : 

"  No,  she  is  dead." 

"  Who  did  you  live  with,  then,  before  you  came  here?" 

u  I  lived  out  in  the  country,  where  my  mother  died,  the  place  where 
we  were  boarding." 

"  I  have  got  a  cousin,  and  she  loves  me  some,  I  suppose.  Haven't 
you  got  any  cousins  ? " 

"  No ;  I  have  no  relatives  at  all." 

I  saw  by  her  countenance  that  she  was  relinquishing  all  hopes  of 
shirking  the  responsibility  upon  any  one  else,  and  she  said,  rather 
slowly : 


LITTLE  CHRISTIE'S   WILL.  269 

"  "Well,  if  there  isn't  any  one  else,  I  will ;  arid  now  you  may  kiss 
me,  if  you  want  to." 

Judith's  wakeful  eyes  twinkled  with  admiration  at  her  mistress, 
and  delight  at  my  unparalleled  success  with  her. 

The  next  day  I  commenced  my  duties,  which  were  very  light. 
Some  days  Christie  was  too  ill  to  have  any  lessons  at  all ;  but  when  she 
was  well  enough,  I  taught  her  for  a  few  hours.  Mr.  Huntington  treated 
me  as  gently  and  courteously  as  if  I  had  been  a  princess,  instead  of 
plain  Eva  Norris,  a  governess.  And  Elfrida  Winthrop  I  found  a  very 
agreeable  companion,  and  a  study,  she  was  so  utterly  unlike  any  other 
woman  I  had  ever  met.  She  seemed  so  open  and  sincere,  I  thought, 
"  here,  at  least,  is  a  woman  who  has  no  concealments."  I  was  certain 
any  one  could  look  down  through  those  clear,  gray  eyes  into  her  soul, 
and  find  no  sentimental  secrets  there,  such  as  other  young  girls  delight 
in.  She  had  a  great  admiration  for  "  Cousin  Claude,"  which  she 
expressed  fully  and  warmly.  She  said  she  could  never  even  imagine 
him  doing  any  act  otherwise  than  nobly  and  greatly. 

"  He  is  the  noblest  man  I  ever  knew,"  said  she,  one  day, 
a  although,  like  other  men,  he  has  a  will  of  his  own."  Something  in 
her  tone,  as  she  said  this,  made  me  fancy  that  sometime  in  her  past 
that  will  had  met  her  own  in  opposition. 

So  the  days  passed  by,  until  I  had  been  with  them  nearly  a  year. 
I  had  had  no  trouble  with  Christie,  for  I  loved  the  child.  Here,  I 
think,  is  where  my  worthy  predecessors  had  failed ;  they  tried  to  make 
her  love  them,  with  no  love  on  their  side ;  but  I  loved  her,  and  my  love 
won  hers.  Her  quaint,  unchildlike  ways  touched  my  fancy ;  her  weak- 
ness appealed  to  my  compassion.  She  grew  to  be  very  dear  to  me. 
Perhaps  there  was  another  reason,  deep  down  in  my  heart,  that  made 
me  love  the  child  so  well ;  hidden  deeper  than  the  depths  of  the  seas,  I 
said  it  should  always  be,  since  it  was  so  vain — so  vain. 

But  I  said  it  should  make  me  better.     If  it  brought  me  pain,  it 


270 


LITTLE  CHRISTIE'S  WILL. 


UNDER   THE   PALM   TREE. 


should  make  me  better,  nobler, 
purer.  I  believe  it  did;  for  all 
earthly  love,  dim  shadow  as  it  is  of 
the  one  love  above,  is  still  a  reflec- 
tion of  the  Infinite. 

In  the  late  autumn  of  the  year, 
Mr.  Hunting-ton's  business  called 
him  West,  and  Elfrida  received  a 
pressing  invitation  from  a  school 
friend  to  pass  the  winter  with  her 
at  Washington.  And  as  Christie's 
health  seemed  poorer  of  late,  Mr. 
Huntington  proposed  that  I  should 
go  with  her  to  Cuba  and  pass  the 
cold  weather.  A  friend  of  his,  a 
minister,  was  going  for  his  health 
with  his  family,  and  it  would  be  a 
good  opportunity  for  us  to  have 
company.  So  it  was  decided;  and 
the  last  week  of  November  found 
us  in  Cuba — Christie,  Judith,  and  I. 

That  winter  in  Cuba  I  shall 
never  forget.  Our  life  was  so  quiet 
and  dreamful,  and  separate  from 
the  confusion  of  the  world.  But 
Christie  grew  weaker,  and  after  a 
while  the  fountain  with  the  palm- 
tree,  a  favorite  spot  with  her,  was 
too  far  for  the  little  feet.  And 
finally,  as  the  spring  came,  she 
did  not  leave  her  room.  But  the 


LITTLE  CHRISTIE'S   WILL.  271 

change  was  so  gradual,  so  peaceful,  that  we,  who  were  with  her  all  the 
time,  could  hardly  realize  it. 

One  evening,  Christie  lay  asleep  on  the  lounge,  which  had  been 
drawn  out  into  the  room,  and  Judith  and  I  sat  upon  either  side  of  it, 
looking  down  into  the  sweet  face,  with  its  halo  of  golden  hair,  which 
to-night  seemed  to  me  to  be  crowning  her  for  a  life  more  beautiful  than 
ours. 

Judith  sat  leaning  forward,  with  her  elbows  upon  her  knees,  and 
her  dress  drawn  tightly  round  them.  Her  shelterless  eyes  seemed  more 
watchful  and  wakeful  than  ever,  and  finally  she  broke  the  profound 
silence  by  saying,  abruptly  : 

"  Do  you  suppose  that  old,  hateful  thing  is  in  heaven  ? " 

"  Why,  what  do  you  mean,  Judith  ?  Who  are  you  talking 
about?" 

"  I  .am  talking  about  Mis,s  Huntington,  the  one  that  brought  this 
pretty  lamb  to  where  she  is." 

"  Let  us  hope  so,"  said  I. 

"  I  don't  know  as  I  hope  so  at  all.  I  have  my  doubts  of  it.  I 
haint  a  cherib  nor  a  serophin.  Mebby  she'd  be  a  thro  win'  the  little 
angels  on  to  the  floor,  and  knockin'  off  their  wings.  Hateful,  jealous 
old  thing ! " 

I  had  never  encouraged  confidences  from  servants,  yet  enough  had 
been  said  in  my  presence  to  make  me  aware  how  wretched  Mr.  Hunt- 
ington's  marriage  had  been.  Although  the  sin  is  no  worse  in  the  sight 
of  a  pure  God,  yet  custom  makes  a  woman-drunkard  seem  more  horri- 
ble than  a  man  in  the  same  condition.  She  was  beautiful,  imperious, 
dissipated.  Jealous  of  her  husband's  affection  for  their  beautiful  child, 
for,  discovering  her  worthlessness,  all  his  affectionate  heart  turned  to 
their  child,  she  flung  it  at  him  one  day  in  a  drunken  rage.  It  fell  to 
the  marble  hearth,  and  was  injured  for  life. 


272 


LITTLE  CHRISTIE'S   WILL. 


"Oh,  what  a  time  that  was!"  said  Judith.  "You  ought  to  have 
seen  Mr.  Huntington's  face.  It  was  white  as  the  baby's,  but  he  never 
said  a  word.  He  picked  up  the  baby,  and  laid  it  on  the  lounge,  and 
rung  for  the  housekeeper ;  and  then  he  took  Miss  Huntington  by  the 
arm  and  led  her  into  her  room,  she  a  strugglin'  all  the  time  like  a  evil 
spirit ;  and  he  locked  her  in  there,  and  not  a  soul  see  her  for  two  days, 

only  he  and  I.  He 
told  the  doctor  and 
housekeeper  and  all 
that  the  baby  got 
hurt  by  a  fall.  But 


"OH  !    WHAT   A   TIME   THAT   WAS." 

if  it  hadn't  been  for  makin'  him  more  trouble,  who  is  a  saint  on  earth, 
if  there  ever  was  one,  wouldn't  I  have  told  the  whole  of  it?" 

"  We  will  not  talk  about  it  any  more,"  said  I,  gently. 

But  Judith  could  not  be  restrained. 

"  She  might  have  knocked  me  up  against  the  wall,  and  pulled  my 
ears  off,  as  she  often  did,"  said  Judith,  forgetful  that  the  members 
whose  loss  she  thus  deplored  were  plainly  visible,  lashed  to  the  present, 


LITTLE  CHRISTIE'S  WILL.  273 

as  it  were,  by  large  hoops  of  a  doubtful  metal.  "  I  haiut  of  much 
account  any  way ;  but  when  I  look  at  this  sweet  lamb,  and  think  what 
she  might  have  been  if  it  hadn't  been  for  that  mean,  spiteful— 

"  Hush,  Judith,  our  enmity  should  stop  at  the  grave.  Mr.  Hunting- 
ton  has  certainly  been  injured  most,  but  he  never  speaks  of  her." 

But  again  Judith  loudly  protested  "  that  she  was  neither  a  saint 
nor  a  serophin." 

I  bent  over  Christie  and  listened  to  her  unsteady  breathing.  "  Have 
you  noticed,  Judith  ?  I  think  she  is  failing  very  fast  of  late." 

"  Haint  I  been  noticing  it  every  day  ?  "  And  throwing  her  apron 
over  her  head,  she  burst  into  such  loud  grief  that,  fearful  lest  she 
should  waken  Christie,  I  was  obliged  to  ask  her  to  leave  the  room. 

That  night  I  wrote  to  Mr.  Huntington ;  and  as  soon  as  his  answer 
reached  us,  and  we  could  make  needful  preparations,  we  were  on  our 
way  to  New  York. 

When  we  had  once  started  for  home,  Christie  was  very  impatient 
to  get  there.  Every  day  she  would  ask  me,  I  know  not  how  many 
times,  "  Eva,  will  we  get  home  to-morrow  ?  " 

One  night — it  was  the  second  night  out — we  were  alone,  for 
Judith  had  lain  down.  Christie  was  lying  still.  I  didn't  know  whether 
she  was  asleep  or  not.  I  was  writing  to  Elfrida.  It  was  a  quiet,  star- 
light night,  and  the  soft  sighing  of  the  wind,  and  the  low  wash  of  the 
water  against  the  side  of  the  boat,  filled  the  room.  Suddenly,  Christie 
spoke  out,  as  if  in  answer  to  some  one : 

"  Yes,  yes !     I  will  come.     I  am  coming." 

I  rose  and  bent  over  her.  "What  is  it,  dear?  Were  you 
dreaming  ?  " 

"No,  no!     Some  one  called  me.     Who  was  it,  Eva?    Where  did 
that  voice  come  from  ?  "  said  she,  looking  up  into  my  face  with  her  sol- 
emn, spiritual  eyes.     "It   said,  'Come,   Christie.      Come,  dear  little 
child?'     Who  was  it,  Eva?" 
18 


274  LITTLE  CHRISTIE'S  WILL. 

"Maybe  it  was  the  water  against  the  side  of  the  boat.  Hear  it 
now." 

She  listened  a  moment  to  the  low,  murmurous  splash  of  the  waves, 
and  then  she  shook  her  head. 

"  No !  It  comes  from  way,  way  off,"  said  she,  waving  her  little 
thin  hand  outward.  "And  yet  I  heard  it  so  plain  —  plainer  than  I  do 
you.  Who  is  it,  Eva,  that  is  calling  me  ? " 

I  laid  my  face  close  down  to  hers,  on  the  pillow,  and  soothed  her 
with  all  the  loving  words  I  could  think  of,  and  then  I  sang  to  her, 
in  a  low  voice,  her  favorite  song  —  her  "  birdie  song,"  as  she  called  it. 

"Birdie,  wait  a  little  longer 
Till  the  little  wings  are  stronger, 
Birdie  then  shall  fly  away." 

As  I  sang  this  she  fell  asleep.  I  know  not  whether  she  dreamed 
this,  whether  it  was  imagination,  or  if,  indeed,  over  the  waste  of  waters 
we  have  no  line  to  fathom,  there  came  a  voice  of  greeting  to  the 
little,  lonely  bark,  that  was  so  fast  nearing  the  heavenly  shore.  But 
she  failed  very  fast  after  this  night. 

Mr.  Huntington  met  us  at  New  York.  And  as  he  looked  at  Chris- 
tie first,  his  face  was  as  white  as  hers ;  even  my  letters  had  not  pre- 
pared him  for  the  change  in  her.  Christie  sprang  into  his  arms  in 
such  a  passion  of  laughter  and  tears  that  it  shook  her  frail  form, 
and  it  required  all  the  calmness  and  cheerfulness  that  he  could 
assume  to  soothe  her  into  quiet. 

How  gentle,  and  tender,  and  loving,  he  was  to  her,  and  to  me 
too  !  But  I,  who  knew  his  noble,  chivalrous  nature,  it  did  not  deceive 
me.  I  said  all  this  kindness  and  tenderness  were  only  flowers,  white 
flowers  that  I  might  lay  upon  that  grave  in  my  heart;  and  if  they 
were  watered  by  my  own  tears,  why  no  one  would  ever  know  it.  I 
said  I  had  a  right  to  weep  over  my  own  dead,  if  I  troubled  no  one 
about  it. 


LITTLE  CHRISTIE'S  WILL.  275 

We  had  been  at  home  just  one  week.  All  day  Christie  had  been 
restless,  some  of  the  time  delirious,  with  intervals  of  consciousness. 
Elfrida  had  lain  down,  for  she  was  not  well,  and  Mr.  Huntington  and 
I  were  alone  with  the  child.  At  twilight  she  revived,  and  said  to 
her  father,  in  a  voice  that  sounded  like  herself :  — 

"  I  am  tired.     When  will  he  come,  papa  ?  " 

"Who,  darling?" 

"  The  strong  man  Eva  told  me  about.  She  said  he  would  carry 
me  in  his  arms." 

Mr.  Huntington  bent  over  her  until  his  cheek  touched  hers. 

"  Don't  cry,  papa.     Where's  Eva  ?     Eva,  come  here." 

I  rose  from  the  sofa,  where  I  had  been  weeping,  silently,  and 
came  and  knelt  down  by  her.  She  looked  up  lovingly  into  my  face, 
and  put  up  her  little,  weak  hand,  and  passed  it  gently  over  my  face. 

"  I  love  you,  Eva." 

Then  she  sank  again  into  that  state  that  was  neither  waking  nor 
sleeping.  And  we  thought  she  seemed  to  be  again  in  Cuba,  for  she 
murmured  something  about  the  fountain,  and  the  palm-trees.  But 
pretty  soon  she  looked  up  again,  and  said :  — 

"  Don't  cry,  Eva." 

As  she  saw  my  tears  still  falling,  perhaps  some  remembrance  of 
the  first  night  we  met  may  have  come  back  to  her  —  when  I  told  her  I 
had  no  one  to  love  me ;  and  she  may  have  thought  pityingly  of  my 
loneliness,  when  I  should  not  have  her  to  love  me,  for  the  little  mind, 
so  nearly  unmoored  from  earthly  supports,  seemed  drifting  through  the 
past  and  the  future,  for  she  said,  musingly :  - 

"  There  won't  be  anybody  then.  Papa,  will  you  love  Eva,  when 
there  isn't  any  body  else  to  love  her  ? " 

"  Yes,  darling." 

But,  feeling  that  her  little  duties  were  not  fully  accomplished,  she 
turned  to  me  :  — 


276 


LITTLE  CHRISTIE'S  WILL. 


"  Eva,  you  will  love  papa,  won't  you  ? " 

I  bent  lower  over  her,  for  I  felt  at  that  moment  that  niy  secret 
that  I  had  buried  might  possibly  be  revealed  in  my  eyes.  I  don't 
think  I  could  have  replied,  had  not  Mr.  Huntington  turned  to  me, 
and  said :  — 

"Will  you,  Eva?" 

What  I  saw  in  his  eyes  made  it  easy  for  me  to  say  "yes."  It 
was  spoken  very 
low ;  but  he  heard  it, 
and  bent,  and  kissed 
my  forehead.  As  he 
did  so,  a  look  of  in- 
finite content  came 
to  Christie's  face. 
And  thus  having 


THE   PKOMISB. 

made  her  small  will,  and  bequeathed  me,  in  my  loneliness,  to  a  love 
she  might  well  consider  inexhaustible,  she  sank  into  a  quiet  sleep. 
Perhaps  she  lay  thus  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  we  bent  over  her 
silently,  watching  the  sweet,  pale  face,  as  it  grew  whiter  and  more 
spiritual ;  and  then  she  commenced  talking  again  in  a  low  voice,  and 
we  fancied  she  thought  she  was  again  at  sea,  for  she  spoke  of  the 
waves  beating  against  the  side  of  the  ship,  and  how  the  vessel  drove 


LITTLE  CHRISTIE'S  WILL.  277 

on  through  the  night;  and  then  a  troubled  look  swept  over  her  face 
like  a  shadow,  and  she  said :  — 

"  Eva  said  I  would  get  home  to-morrow." 

But  the  troubled  look  passed  away  like  a  shadow,  and  she  pres- 
ently looked  up  into  her  father's  face,  and  said,  smiling :  — 

"  Oh,  papa !   I  have  got  home." 

And  saying  this,  she  passed  into  that  dear  home  above,  that  is 
lasting  and  beautiful  forever,  and  where  there  is  no  looking  for  any 
sorrowful  to-morrow. 

Six  weeks  after  this  night,  I  was  sitting  with  Elfrida  in  the 
upper  balcony,  she  wan  and  white,  and  dependent  on  me  now,  for  her 
illness  the  night  of  Christie's  death  proved  to  be  the  commencement 
of  a  sickness  that  had  been  nearly  fatal.  I  had  intended  to  leave 
Huntington  Manor  immediately  after  Christie's  funeral;  but  Elfrida 
could  not  endure  to  hear  me  even  speak  of  leaving  her;  and  when 
Mr.  Huntington,  with  his  pale,  sorrowful  face,  joined  his  entreaties 
to  hers,  how  could  I  refuse  ? 

Elfrida  had  been  reading  Mrs.  Browning's  poems,  which  were  her 
great  favorites ;  but  the  book  had  fallen  into  her  lap,  and  she  sat 
looking  at  the  distant  mountains.  What  she  was  thinking  of,  as  she 
sat  there  so  silently,  I  could  not  tell ;  but  I  thought,  as  I  looked  up 
at  her  occasionally  from  my  embroidery,  that  I  had  never  seen  her  so 
gentle  and  womanly  before.  Finally,  she  spoke  :  - 

"  Eva,  I  want  to  ask  you  something." 

"  Very  well,"  said  I.  "  But  first  let  me  get  your  shawl ;  the  air 
is  growing  chillier." 

The  shawl  lay  upon  her  dressing-table,  and,  as  I  bent  to  take  it 
up,  a  sentence  from  an  open  letter  that  was  lying  there  met  my 
eye.  "You .should,  at  least,  Elfrida,  respect  an  honest  love." 

The  writing  was  Mr.  Huntington's.  He  had  been  in  New  York 
for  the  last  few  days,  and  I  knew  she  had  received  a  letter  from  him 


278  LITTLE  CHRISTIE'S   WILL. 

that  day.  For  a  moment  I  caught  at  the  table  for  support,  for  the 
room  spun  round  with  me.  Like  a  flash  came  back  to  me  a  thou- 
sand little  trifles,  unnoticed  at  the  time,  but  which  I  marvelled  now 
at  my  blindness  in  not  noticing. 

"  Eva !  Are  you  not  coming,  Eva  ? "  With  the  impatience  of  an 
invalid,  Elfrida  was  calling  me. 

"  Yes,  I  am  coming." 

I  went  up  behind  her,  and  folded  the  rich  India  shawl  round  her 
graceful  shoulders,  more  carefully  and  tenderly  than  usual,  I  remem- 
ber, for  I  recollect  thinking,  even  at  that  moment,  how  I  should 
despise  myself  if  I  should  become  jealous  and  spiteful  toward  her 
even  in  feeling. 

Then  I  went  and  leaned  against  one  of  the  pillars  of  the  balcony ; 
but  with  my  face  averted  from  hers,  and  so  I  waited  for  her  to 
speak. 

"  Eva,  I  believe  my  sickness  has  taught  me  a  great  deal,"  she 
said. 

"I  think  it  does  often.  If  there  was  no  darkness,  we  couldn't 
see  the  stars." 

"What  is  the  matter,  Eva?  Have  you  taken  cold?  your  voice 
doesn't  sound  natural." 

"  No,  there  is  nothing  the  matter !  What  was  it  you  were  going 
to  ask  me  ? " 

"  Suppose  a  man  loved  you,  Eva,  and  you  had  trifled  with  his 
love ;  set  your  own  will  against  a  noble,  manly  purpose  ;  had  been  obsti- 
nate, willful  —  what  would  you  do  ?  " 

"If  I  thought  I  had  wronged  him;  if  I  were  certain  that  he 
loved  me  still ;  that  he  were  unhappy,  and  my  love  would  make  him 
happier,  I  would " 

"You  would  what?''   for  I  hesitated. 

"  I  would  find  a  way  to  tell  him  my  mistake." 


LITTLE  CHRISTIE'S  WILL.  279 

"  But  it  is  so  terribly  hard  for  a  woman  to  go  to  a  man,  and 
tell  him  that  she  has  discovered  that  she  loves  him  better  than  she 
does  her  own  will.  How  could  you,  Eva  ? " 

"I  would  find  a  way,"  I  repeated. 

As  I  said  this,  I  went  to  my  room,  for  I  felt  that  any  further 
talk  just  then  would  have  been  impossible.  To  leave  Huntington 
Manor  as  quickly  as  I  could,  that  was  my  first  thought.  To  go  home, 
home  to  my  mother's  grave  —  I  had  no  other  home  —  and  there  I 
would  try  to  forget  him.  No,  I  did  not  want  to  forget  him,  I  said; 
I  wanted  his  memory  to  go  with  me  always ;  to  inspire  me,  to  make 
me  a  better  girl.  Not  for  an  instant  did  I  blame  him  for  the  words 
with  which  I  had  deceived  myself;  words  he  said  only  to  soothe  his 
dying  child.  And  his  manner  to  me  since  —  it  was  only  because 
Christie  had  loved  me.  I  knew  Elfrida  would  never  consent  to  my 
leaving  her  so  soon;  but  to-morrow  she  was  going  to  spend  the  day 
with  a  lady  friend  —  her  first  visit.  I  had  promised  to  go  too ;  but 
in  the  morning  I  excused  myself  —  I  was  not  well;  and  my  pale 
cheeks  bore  witness  to  my  truth. 

And  so  I  went  as  quietly  as  possible,  but  with  Judith's  wakeful 
eyes  following  me  reproachfully, — went  back  to  where  my  mother 
had  died. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wiggins  met  me  with  open  arms  and  hearts.  And 
Mr.  Wiggins  related  a  story  suited  to  the  occasion,  which  they  called 
happy. 

The  next  night,  at  sunset,  I  set  out  for  a  walk.  But  the  earth 
and  the  sky  looked  dismal  to  me,  though  one  was  golden  and  the 
other  fresh  and  green  as  June  could  make  it.  I  made  my  walk 
but  a  short  one.  The  gate  was  some  distance  from  the  house,  and 
was  separated  from  it  by  a  clump  of  willows,  and  I  felt  so  tired  as 
I  shut  it,  on  my  return,  that  I  laid  my  head  down  upon  the  low  gate- 
post, upon  my  clasped  hands.  I  don't  know  how  long  I  had  been 


280  LITTLE  CHRISTIE'S  WILL. 

there,  but  I  am  afraid  my  tears  were  falling,  for  I  could  see  on  the 
side  of  the  hill  that  little  white  cross,  and  the  way  seemed  so  long 
between  my  nineteen  years,  and  mother  and  home.  Suddenly,  a  hand 
was  laid  upon  my  shoulder. 

"Did  you  think  you  could  run  away  from  me  so  easily,  Eva?" 
a  voice  said. 

"Mr.  Huntmgton!" 

"How  could  you  leave  me  so,  Eva?"  he  said,  reproachfully.  "I 
thought  you  promised  to  love  me." 

There  was  such  a  loving,  tender  reproach  in  his  eyes,  I  could 
hardly  bear  it ;  but  I  answered  honestly :  — 

"  I  didn't  think  —  I  didn't  know  as  you  would  care,"  I  stammered. 

"Am  I  then  so  difficult  to  understand?  Did  I  not  show  plainly 
how  dear  you  were  to  me  ? " 

"  Your  cousin,  Elfrida,"  I  began,  and  then  hesitated ;  but  a  glim- 
mering of  the  truth  seemed  to  dawn  upon  him. 

"  Elfrida !  Why  you  dear  little  woman,  she  is  just  like  a  sister 
to  me ;  she  is  engaged  too,  to  a  minister ;  they  quarrelled,  for  she  didn't 
like  his  profession ;  but  she  has  made  him  some  apology,  which  he 
was  very  glad  to  receive.  I  have  been  his  friend  throughout  the 
whole  affair,  for  he  is  a  really  noble  fellow.  I  met  him  in  New  York, 
and  wrote  to  her  about  him.  I  don't  know  whether  it  influenced  her 
or  not." 

I  knew  how  it  had  affected  me,  but  I  didn't  say  anything  about 
it;  indeed,  I  didn't  care  to  speak  at  all;  for  the  old,  old  story,  which 
he  seemed  not  to  tire  of  telling,  filled  up  the  rosy  moments.  But  as 
he  went  on  to  say  how  my  influence  had  made  him  better,  purer,  I 
interrupted  him  by  saying,  earnestly  :  — 

"  I  am  not  nearly  so  good  as  you  think  I  am,  Mr.  Huntington ; 
I  am  afraid  you  will  find  me  out." 

He   said   he   couldn't   possibly  entertain   any  emotions  of  fear  in 


LITTLE  CHRISTIE'S  WILL.  281 

regard  to  me,  because  perfect  love  casteth  out  fear ;  and  then  he  went 
on  to  wonder  if  I  couldn't  possibly  change  that  "  Mr.  Huntington  "  into 
something  shorter  and  easier ;  Claude,  for  instance.  He  must  try  to 
make  me  a  little  less  afraid  of  him.  I  am  afraid  he  kissed  me  then 
—  I  think  he  did. 

The  story  Mr.  Wiggins  told  me  when  he  became  aware  of  my 
engagement  exceeded  in  length  even  that  upon  my  departure.  But 
after  several  hours  of  suspense  as  to  how  it  would  terminate,  and 
doubt  as  to  whether  it  would  ever  terminate  at  all,  it  ended  happily. 

We  were  married  in  the  little  stone  church;  for  I  had  a  foolish 
fancy  that  I  wanted  to  be  married  near  my  mother's  grave.  It  seemed 
to  me  that,  up  among  the  angels  as  she  was,  her  child's  happiness 
must  make  her  happier.  As  we  stood  by  the  little  white  cross,  after- 
wards, I  said :  — 

"  It  seems  to  me,  as  if  mother  and  Christie  are  near  to  us 
Claude." 

"  They  are,  I  fully  believe  it,"  said  he,  reverently.  "  I  believe 
they  love  us  still;  they  have  only  gone  into  a  home  more  beautiful 
than  ours,  waiting  for  us." 


PRUDENCE   WINFIELD. 


HEN  it  was  first  told  in  Eastbrook  that 
Prudence  Winfield  was  going  to  Ohio  on 
the  cars,  it  was  supposed  to  be  a  gross 
falsehood,  and  was  considered  too  improb- 
able to  believe.  But  as  time  passed,  and 
the  wild  tale  was  confirmed,  the  wonder  merged  into  deep  anxiety. 
How  would  she  ever  live  to  get  there  ? 

Old  Uncle  Smedley,  who  had  peddled  tinware  in  his  day,  and  was 
considered  a  great  traveler,  with  immense  knowledge  of  the  world, 
affirmed,  solemnly,  that  "  it  was  three  hundred  miles,  if  it  was  a  step." 
And  at  first  much  blame  was  heaped  upon  that  old  invalid,  Father 
Winfield,  for  consenting  to  the  perilous  undertaking.  But  when  it 
was  fully  understood  that  her  only  brother  John  was  sick  unto  death, 
and  felt  that  he  must  see  Prudence  e'er  he  departed,  all  emotions 
died  away  save  anxiety  as  to  her  welfare.  For  Prudence  was  beloved 
in  Eastbrook — so  much  so  that,  I  think,  if  anyone  had  been  rash 
enough  to  speak  evil  of  Prudence  Winfield,  Eastbrook  would  have  risen 
to  a  man  and  stoned  him  from  their  gates. 

Dr.  Ray  nor  took  Prudence  in  his  light  buggy  to  the  nearest  sta- 
tion, which  was  fifteen  miles  away  —  for  this  all  occurred  in  a  remote 

C283) 


284 


JOHN'S  WIFE. 


era,  when  railroads  were  rarer  than  now.  It  was  considered  the  right 
thing  for  him  to  do,  for  he  and  Prudence  had  "kept  company"  for 
ten  years.  Quite  a  long  time  for  waiting,  so  our  grave  doctor  thought. 

Especially  did  he  think 
so  on  stormy  evenings, 
seated  in  his  library, 
with    no    society    but 
the  cold  face  of  a  Ma- 
donna   looking   down 
upon  him.  Eight  years 
before,  he  had  bought 
that     little     statuette 
because     he    thought 
the     face     was    like 
Prue's;  but  how  cold 
and     impassible     the 
marble     face    looked 
after  all !     If  a  little 
figure  with  the  same 
pure  profile,  but  with 
such  wonderfully  soft 
color  in  the  cheeks  and 
mouth  —  such     large 
loving   eyes  —  if  that 
little   woman,   in   the 
quiet   grey  dress   she 
liked  best,  could  only 
be  there  instead,  why, 
what  a  change  it  would 
make  in  the  great  emp- 
COLD  COMPORT.  ty  house,  to  be  sure  ! 


JOHN'S  WIFE.  285 

Yes,  the  doctor  got  tired  of  waiting1,  and  though  there  was  not 
an  unmarried  woman  for  miles  about  but  would  have  been  quite 
willing  to  console  the  handsome,  manly  doctor,  and  been  mistress  of 
his  beautiful  home,  he  loved  his  pure  patient  Prue  too  well  to  even 
dream  of  any  other  wife. 

But  Prudence  wouldn't  leave  her  father,  and,  with  perhaps  an 
overstrained  sense  of  duty,  would  not  form  any  other  ties  that  would 
in  any  way  interfere  with  her  devotion  to  him. 

Her  father  was  an  invalid,  and  an  exceedingly  difficult  old  gentle- 
man to  get  along  with  —  impatient,  exacting,  demanding  all  her  care 
and  all  her  sympathy,  which  she  gave  unstintingly ;  but  which,  never- 
theless, drew  so  upon  her  vitality,  that,  I  think,  had  it  not  been  for 
the  comfort  and  sympathy  Dr.  Raynor  gave  her  in  the  calm  strength 
of  his  manhood,  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  soul-rest  and  happiness 
she  found  in  his  love,  I  fear  me,  poor  little  Prue  would  hardly  have 
endured  her  hard  life  for  all  these  years. 

What  a  comfort  it  was  to  Prue,  to  be  sure,  this  ride  through  the 
sweet  morning  air  with  her  doctor !  He  is  saying :  — 

"  The  days  will  seem  long  without  you,  Prue.  How  long  will  you 
be  gone  ? " 

"Oh,  not  more  than  a  week;  father  couldn't  spare  me  possibly 
longer  than  that.  I  am  afraid  Bridget  will  have  a  hard  time  with 
him.  He  would  never  have  given  his  consent  to  my  going  at  all  if 
it  were  not  to  see  John  —  poor  John!" 

And  tears  filled  the  big,  pathetic  brown  eyes. 

Dr.  Raynor  was  thirty-eight  that  very  autumn,  and  Prudence  was 
thirty-one;  but  as  he  saw  these  tears  —  there  being  no  one  in  sight 
at  the  time  —  he  bent  down  and  kissed  them  away  as  tenderly  as  if 
he  were  just  twenty-one  years  of  age. 

"Poor  Prue,  poor  little  tired  woman!  1  wish  1  was  going  with 
you  to  take  care  of  you." 


286  JOHN'S  WIFE. 

He  was  silent  for  a  minute  —  a  silence  filled  with  bird-song,  and 
pleasant  murmur  of  the  south  wind  through  the  odorous  branches 
over  their  heads  —  for  they  were  passing  through  a  strip  of  woodland 
that  run  up  on  either  side  to  the  highway,  and  then  he  spoke :  — 

UI  wanted  to  ask  you  if  —  if  it  ends  as  you  fear  it  will,  what 
will  be  done  with  his  wife  and  child  ?  He  is  poor,  isn't  he  ?  " 

"Yes,  poor  John!  He  never  could  keep  money.  Father  gave 
him  more  than  half  his  property  when  he  started  in  business,  but 
somehow  he  couldn't  get  on." 

"  His  wife  was  no  help  to  him,  as  I  learn.  —  extravagant,  a  mar- 
ried flirt — a  friend  gave  me  a  description  of  her." 

"  We  may  all  have  been  misinformed,"  said  gentle  Prue.  "  I 
have  never  seen  her.  I  don't  wonder  she  never  cared  to  visit  us,  we 
live  in  such  a  different  style  from  what  she  has  been  accustomed  to. 
But  now  it  will  be  different ;  now,  I  think,  she  will  be  glad  to  come 
home  with  me  and  live.  She  writes  me  that  they  are  poor  and  friend- 
less in  a  strange  place.  I  know  she  will  let  me  love  her  now." 

If  Dr.  Raynor  thought  that  that  would  not  be  a  very  difficult 
task  to  accomplish,  he  may  be  pardoned,  for  he  was  very  much  in 
love,  as  his  next  words  went  to  prove :  — 

"  If  she  should  come,  Prue  —  if  she  should  come  to  live  with 
you — then  you  would  be  freer;  then"  —  and  the  good  doctor's  voice 
fairly  trembled  with  the  intensity  of  his  emotion  —  "then,  Prue,  will 
you  not  reward  me  for  all  my  long  years  of  waiting  ? " 

"  Maybe  she  wouldn't  like  the  care  of  an  invalid  —  maybe  father 
wouldn't  like  her  to  wait  on  him  —  maybe " 

"  But  you  will  certainly  be  freer,  Prue.  She  can  divide  your 
care  with  you,  at  all  events ;  and  I  will  not  ask  you  to  leave  your 
father  unless  you  are  willing  to ;  I  will  even  rent  my  place,  and  come 
and  live  with  you,  Prue  —  help  you.  Surely  with  her  help  we  can 
take  care  of  him,  and  still  have  some  time  left  for  each  other;  and 


WIFE.  287 

I  will  not  let  you  live  on  in  this  way  much  longer,  Prue;  it  is  kill- 
ing you." 

To  a  woman  who  is  constantly  drawn  upon  for  help  by  a  weaker 
will  —  guiding,  guarding,  petting  —  there  is  something  irresistibly  fas- 
cinating in  being  cared  for  by  a  stronger  will  than  her  own  —  some- 
thing exceedingly  pleasant  in  this  strong  care-taking  —  "you  shall," 
and  "you  shall  not." 

Nevertheless,  Prue  was  not  at  rest  in  her  mind;  she  saw  lions 
by  the  way.  And  if  it  were  possible  for  any  one  to  have  a  quarrel 
with  tender-hearted  Prue  Winfield,  I  fear  she  and  her  doctor  would 
have  had  a  lover's  quarrel  before  they  reached  the  sunlight  of  the 
open  highway  again.  For,  as  we  have  said,  Dr.  Raynor  had  got  tired 
of  waiting  for  his  life's  happiness,  and  he  told  her  that  sometimes  he 
was  almost  tempted  to  think  that  she  never  cared  for  him. 

I  don't  think  he  thought  this — indeed  I  am  certain  he  did  not; 
but,  in  his  saying  it,  he  proved  that,  after  his  ten  years  of  patient 
devotion  and  waiting,  his  heart  was  now  swept  and  garnished,  ready 
for  any  evil  spirit  of  jealousy  to  enter  in  and  tear  him. 

So  Dr.  Raynor,  after  seeing  Prue  safely  on  the  cars,  went  back  to 
his  lonely  home,  and  Prue  was  borne  swiftly  forward  toward  the  sick 
room  of  her  brother.  If  Prue  sorrowed  over  this  brother,  whose 
death-bed  she  soon  expected  to  stand  by,  it  was  something  as  we  sor- 
row in  a  dream,  for  he  had  left  home  when  she  was  a  child,  and 
she  had  never  seen  him  since ;  but  letters,  few  and  far  between,  kept 
them  aware  of  his  identity.  Two  or  three  times  he  had  sent  home 
for  money,  and  Prue  well  remembered  the  sacrifices  they  had  been 
obliged  to  make  at  home  in  order  to  send  it.  But  he  always  sent 
it,  for  this  boy  John  was  his  father's  idol ;  or,  rather,  Prue  sent  it ; 
for,  when  his  father  divided  his  property,  giving  John  by  far  the 
greater  share,  the  rest  of  his  property,  which  was  comprised  in  the 
homestead  farm,  was  willed  to  Prudence. 


288  JOHN'S  WIFE. 

But  now  John's  wealth  was  all  gone,  and  he  was  dying  in  a 
strange  land.  He  had  started  to  come  home  with  his  wife  and  child, 
but  could  get  no  further  than  this  little  village  in  Ohio,  and,  at  his 
wife's  instigation,  he  dictated  a  letter  to  his  sister,  asking  her  to 
come  to  him.  His  wife  thought  it  would  be  much  less  embarrassing 
for  her  to  go  back  with  her  sister-in-law,  at  her  invitation,  than  to  go 
as  a  stranger,  unbidden ;  hence  Prue  had  been  sent  for. 

But  Prue,  although  the  cars  took  her,  she  thought,  at  a  very  swift 
rate,  one  who  is  swifter,  whose  name  is  Death,  out-distanced  her  in 
her  journeying  to  the  bedside  of  her  brother  John.  She  reached  the 
inn  just  in  time  to  see  his  dead  face  in  the  coffin  ere  the  grave  closed 
over  it. 

John's  wife  met  her  with  just  the  proper  degree  of  sorrow  and 
affliction.  Such  women  as  Helen  Winfield  never  overdo  or  fall  short 
in  mourning,  their  grief  being  regulated  on  systematic  principles 
intended  to  impress  beholders.  The  child  took  Prue's  loving  heart 
by  storm.  It  was  a  little  boy,  with  a  look  of  sadness  and  maturity 
on  his  small  fair  face  unsuited  to  his  years. 

Prue  soon  discovered  that  this  boy,  little  Johnnie,  was  his  mother's 
idol,  though  she  treated  him  capriciously,  and  really  made  the  child 
unhappy.  Sometimes  she  would  indulge  him  to  excess,  pet  him, 
humor  every  whim,  reasonable  and  unreasonable ;  but  then,  if  the 
child  did  not  obey  every  word  of  hers,  defer  to  every  unreasonable 
fancy,  she  would  burst  forth  in  a  passion  of  reproaches  and  jealous 
rage.  It  seemed  as  if  John's  wife  had  every  other  feeling  in  her 
nature  in  check  only  her  love  for  this  child,  her  jealousy  lest  he 
should  not  love  her  with  an  exclusive  devotion  —  care  for  any  one 
else  but  her. 

Prue  loved  the  quiet,  unhappy  little  fellow  from  the  very  first 
moment  she  looked  on  him  sitting  with  swollen  eyes  at  the  foot  of 
his  father's  coffin.  The  affection  Johnnie  had  felt  for  his  father 


JOHN'S  WIFE. 


289 


could  be  traced  in  every  feature  of   his   pale   little   face.     And,  after 
Prue  knew  his  mother  better,  she   could  well   imagine  how  that  love 
had  been  made  a  torture 
to  the  sensitive  child. 

Three  days  later 
found  Prudence  and 
John's  wife  at  East- 
brook.  John's  wife 
made  herself  exceed- 
ingly useful.  Daugh- 
ters-in-law might  well 
have  taken  pattern  by 
John's  wife  in  devotion 
to  aged  fathers  in-law. 
In  fact,  before  they  had 
been  home  a  month, 
Prue  found  her  time 
almost  entirely  at  her 
own  disposal.  Her  fa- 
ther seemed  to  have  no 
need  of  her,  so  entirely 
had  John's  wife  taken 
her  place  in  his  mind, 
weakened  by  age  and 
suffering.  The  devo- 
tion of  a  life  time  was 
forgotten  in  the  blan- 
dishments and  flatteries 
of  this  new  daughter. 

Prue's  hands  were  at  ease,  but  her  heart  ached.     She  had  cared 
for  her  father  so  long  that  he  seemed  to  her  more  like  a  child  than 
19 


290  JOHN'S  WIFE. 

a  parent.  She  felt  for  him  that  deeper  love  that  people  say  parents 
always  feel  for  the  most  helpless  of  the  children,  the  one  that  calls 
for  the  most  care.  And  before  this  new  daughter  came  Prue  had 
been  the  very  apple  of  her  father's  eye,  and  the  knowledge  of  his 
love  for  her  had  made  his  unreasonableness  and  exactions  endurable. 

It  would  seem  almost  impossible  that  a  father  could  be  influenced 
against  such  a  daughter  as  Prue ;  but  John's  wife  was  a  very  clever 
woman  —  a  splendid  diplomatist  she  would  have  made  had  fate  given 
nations  into  her  care  instead  of  the  happiness  of  poor  Prue  Winfield. 

I  don't  think  it  added  much  to  her  unhappiness  when  at  the  end 
of  four  months  a  new  will  was  made,  giving  the  property  that  had 
been  willed  to  Prue  to  John's  boy.  For  she  was  one  of  the  fond, 
foolish  ones  of  the  earth  whose  dearest  wealth  consists  not  in  houses 
and  lands.  Prue  was  very  unselfish,  and  she  loved  the  little  fellow. 

But,  poor  Prue,  she  had  fallen  upon  hard  ways,  for  now,  of  all 
times,  when  she  needed  some  love  to  turn  to  in  her  heart-loneliness 
and  pain  —  that  affection  that  had  grown  to  be  the  best  part  of  her 
life  seemed  to  fail  her.  Dr.  Raynor  grew  cool,  and  his  visits  less  and 
less  frequent.  He  did,  indeed,  visit  her  father  regularly,  and  strove 
with  all  his  skill  to  make  the  old  man's  last  hours  more  comfort- 
able, for  he  was  failing  fast.  But  he  seemed  to  avoid  Prue,  and,  as 
John's  wife  seemed  to  wish  to  monopolize  his  society  when  he  called,, 
Prue  shrank  from  meeting  him,  and  silently,  strongly,  day  by  day,  an 
intangible  but  mighty  barrier  rose  between  them. 

Johnnie's  loyal,  childish  fingers  would,  if  it  had  been  in  his 
power,  smoothed  all  the  pain  and  anguish  from  the  heart  of  dear 
Aunt  Prue.  For  he  soon  transferred  to  this  unselfish,  patient  aunt 
the  love  he  had  given  his  father.  I  think  that  John's  wife,  in  the 
higher  stakes  she  was  playing  for,  was  unmindful  how  her  idol's 
heart  was  turning  to  that  of  Prue,  or  her  jealousy  would  have  broken 
forth  in  the  old  time  storms  that  Johnnie  remembered  so  well,  when 


JOHN'S  WIFE.  291 

he  had  manifested  his  preference  for  his  weak,  good-natured  father. 
But  Johnnie's  love  could  not  fill  poor  Prue's  heart.  The  days  were 
very  long — long  as  those  days  only  can  be  which  are  endured  in  the 
constant  anguish  of  patience. 

The  last  day  of  September  came,  and  the  earth  all  flamed  out  in 
beauty,  gorgeous,  glowing.  But  to  poor  Prue  it  was  only  the  hectic 
flush  that  betokens  that  sweet  nature  was  dying.  Everything  seemed 
dying  —  fading  away,  to  poor  Prue  Winfield  —  life,  love,  happiness. 
Her  father  had  failed  very  rapidly  for  the  last  few  days.  Just  at 
sundown  she  went  into  his  room ;  he  was  asleep,  but  as  she  bent  over 
him,  to  draw  the  bed-quilt  more  carefully  about  him,  he  opened  his 
eyes  and  looked  up  into  her  face  earnestly,  wistfully. 

"  Shall  I  call  John's  wife  ?  "  asked  Prue,  patiently. 

"  No,  no !  Prue,  good  girl,  Mary's  girl,  you  stay  with  me,  I  want 
you." 

He  closed  his  eyes  again,  and  Prue  sat  by  him  silently,  till  the 
light  all  faded  from  the  room,  and  she  heard,  through  the  open  win- 
dow, the  loaded  wains  and  the  tired  laborers  wending  homeward  in 
the  twilight  to  the  welcome  repose  of  the  night,  and  in  that  quiet 
hour  Father  Winfield,  too,  rested  from  all  his  labors. 

It  was  but  a  month  after  her  father's  death,  but  already  had 
John's  wife  shown  to  Prudence  that  she  expected  her  to  find  a  new 
home  —  not  by  words,  but  by  the  subtler  language  of  looks,  actions. 

Prue  had  an  aunt  in  New  Hampshire;  true,  she  had  never  seen 
her,  but  she  was  a  widow,  and  Prue  thought  the  lonely  woman  might 
welcome  her,  for  her  mother's  sake,  for  a  few  weeks  until  she  could 
look  around  and  see  what  she  was  to  do  in  the  future. 

The  winter  was  setting  in  early,  and  the  first  day  of  November 
was  dreary  enough.  The  dead  leaves  lay  in  heaps  under  the  cold 
gray  sky.  Prue  thought  the  day  was  like  her  life,  gray  and  bare,  cold 
and  dreary.  Just  before  dark  she  set  out  to  visit  her  father's  grave. 


292  JOHN'S  WIFE. 

Johnnie  had  not  been  very  well  that  day,  and  had  gone  to  bed 
before  sundown,  so  she  was  alone.  Just  before  she  reached  the 
churchyard  gate  she  met  Dr.  Raynor.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had 
seen  him  since  the  day  of  the  funeral,  and  Prue  looking  up  for  the 
moment  was  startled  to  see  the  change  in  his  face  since  she  had 
seen  him.  He  looked  sick  and  weary.  But  he  bowed  coldly  enough 
to  her,  and  passed  by  without  a  word. 

I  think,  if  Prue  had  told  the  truth,  she  would  have  said,  if  there 
was  anything  on  earth  she  envied  and  coveted,  it  was  the  quiet  repose 
of  the  sleeper  below,  as  she  stood  there  by  that  grave,  with  the  tears 
falling  fast  over  her  white  face. 

How  long  she  stood  there  she  did  not  know,  for  grief  as  well 
as  happiness  takes  no  note  of  the  passage  of  time.  But  she  was 
aroused  at  last  by  a  hand  laid  upon  her  arm. 

"  Prue !  Miss  Winfield !  you  ought  not  to  be  sitting  here  in  the 
cold  and  damp." 

She  looked  up  for  a  moment  with  her  pathetic,  startled  eyes,  and 
then  she  bowed  her  face  again  in  her  hands. 

"  You  will  listen  to  me  as  a  doctor,  Prue,  though  I  have  lost 
every  other  claim  upon  your  attention.  I  thought  I  would  never 
intrude  upon  you  in  any  way  again.  But  your  white  face  to-night 
frightened  me.  You  are  sick,  and  you  must  not  sit  here  in  the  cold 
any  longer." 

Ah !  how  sweet  to  poor,  lonely  Prue  was  the  old  authoritative  care- 
taking,  "You    must   not."     Prue   was   not   one  of   the  strong-minded, 
and  liked  to  be  ordered  about  by  those   she   loved.     So  she  rose  and  - 
drew  her  shawl  about  her,  and  turned  to  leave   the   grave.     But  she 
had  not  taken  a  step  before  she  felt  a  cold  hand  upon  her  arm. 

"  Prue  !  Prue !  I  never  meant  to  speak  to  you  to  reproach  you  for 
the  ruin  of  my  happiness.  But  I  can't  let  you  go  without  one  farewell 
word  —  one " 


JOHN'S  WIFE.  293 

"  The  ruin  of  your  happiness,"  cried  poor  Prue,  looking  up  into  his 
white  face.  "  Are  you,  too,  unhappy  through  my  fault  ?  I  wish  I  were 
dead,"  she  burst  forth,  with  quivering  lips,  "  so  I  could  trouble  no  one 
any  more  ! " 

"  Do  you  know  that  I  have  wished  that,  too,  Prue  —  wished  that 
you  had  died  when  I  thought  you  were  my  own,  so  I  could  call  you 
mine  in  death,  weep  over  your  grave,  know  that  I  could  claim  you  in 
that  other  home  ?  But  to  think  you  could  deceive  me  so,  trifle  with  my 
love  —  that  you  never  loved  me  !  " 

"  Never  loved  you !  "  cried  Prue.     "  Who  told  you  that  ? " 

u  John's  wife  —  but  I  never  would  have  believed  it  if  your  cold 
manner  hadn't  confirmed  it.  That  made  me  believe  it.  But,  oh,  Prue, 
for  the  sake  of  my  faith  in  humanity,  tell  me  I  was  wrong  —  that  you 
did  once,  long  ago  —  love  me  !  " 

She  raised  her  pure  eyes  to  his  face,  and  said,  with  her  old,  sweet 
gravity :  — 

"I  have  always  loved  you." 

What  took  place  next,  what  words  were  said,  are  not  for  us  to 
listen  to ;  but  a  half-hour  later  they  were  sitting  there  still,  for  the  doc- 
tor had  unaccountably  gotten  over  his  fear  of  evening  damps.  Perhaps 
he  thought  the  strong  arm  about  the  little  figure  could  ward  off  even  as 
intangible  enemies  as  mists  and  miasma!  At  all  events,  there  they 
were  sitting  —  his  arm  around  her,  both  of  her  small  hands  in  his  one 
strong  hand ;  his  face  bent  down  near  to  the  pretty,  patient  one,  pale 
now  no  longer ;  and  he  was  talking  to  her  in  the  old  way,  speaking 
sweet  words,  doubly  tender  now  through  pity  and  sympathy — when 
they  were  both  startled  by  a  little,  soft,  piping,  childish  voice  close 
beside  them :  — 

"Aunt  Prue,  I've  tummed  to  find  you — Johnnie  was  tired,  and 
wanted  you." 

"Johnnie!  —  you  here  at  this  hour?" 


294 


JOHN'S  WIFE. 


"  Yes  ;  you  know  we've  tummed  here  mos'  every  day.  I  knew  you 
was  here,  and  I  wanted  you  —  Johnnie  was  tired." 

Johnnie  was  in  his  bare  feet  and  night-gown ;  but,  with  childish 
precaution  against  taking  cold,  he  had  wrapped  a  great  crimson  shawl 
of  his  mother's  about  him,  which  trailed  on  the  ground  behind  him  like 
a  royal  mantle. 

The  doctor  took  the  little  fellow  in  his  arms,  and  carried  him  up 


"I'VE   TUMMED   TO   FIND   YOU." 

to  the  old  farm-house.  But  Aunt  Prue  must  hold  one  of  the  hot,  baby 
hands  all  the  way ;  for  "  Johnnie  was  tired,  and  wanted  Aunt  Prue." 
And  through  the  days  to  come  this  was  the  great  want  of  the  little  inva- 
lid ;  for  Johnnie's  illness  proved  to  be  the  scarlet-fever,  and  his  exposure 
to  the  night  air  had  not  helped  him.  But  still  he  was  not  considered 


JOHN'S  WIFE.  295 

dangerous ;  and  Prue  couldn't  watch  over  him  as  she  wanted  to,  his 
mother  so  jealously  monopolized  all  the  care  of  him.  The  face  of  John's 
wife  had  not  been  pleasant  to  look  upon  since  that  evening  when  she 
saw  the  reconciled  lovers  come  in  bearing  her  little  runaway. 

A  week  after  this  was  Prue's  wedding-day ;  for  the  doctor  would 
not  brook  another  instant's  delay,  and  they  had  been  married  very 
quietly  at  the  little  village  church.  That  night  all  the  doctor's  dream- 
ings  had  come  true  ;  for  there  Prue  sat,  by  his  side,  in  the  library,  pleas- 
ant now,  and  bright  as  no  other  room  ever  was  or  ever  could  be  —  so 
Dr.  Raynor  knew.  Prue  had  not  wanted  to  take  the  stereotyped  wed- 
ding journey,  and  the  doctor  willingly  yielded  to  her  wishes,  grudging 
as  he  did  every  moment  of  her  time  that  was  not  exclusively  his  own. 
As  they  sat  there  in  that  bright  room,  love-glorified,  a  message  came  to 
Dr.  Raynor  to  come  quickly  to  the  farm-house,  for  Johnnie  was  worse. 

The  anger  and  envy  and  disappointment  of  John's  wife  had  yielded 
to  her  anxiety,  for  Dr.  Raynor  was  the  most  skillful  physicfan  in  the 
vicinity. 

In  their  great  happiness  they  could  both  afford  to  forgive  her  for 
all  the  bitterness  and  anguish  she  had  caused  them,  and  in  a  few  min- 
utes Dr.  Raynor  and  Prue  were  by  his  side.  Johnnie  lay  in  his  mother's 
arms,  pale  and  still.  The  doctor  had  only  to  glance  at  him,  when  Prue 
knew  by  his  face  the  truth  —  Johnnie  was  dying.  John's  wife  had 
stolen  her  father's  affections,  stolen  her  rightful  inheritance,  and  well- 
nigh  broken  Prue's  heart  by  her  efforts  at  winning  her  lover's  heart. 
But  still  Prue  could  feel  nothing  but  pity  and  compassion  for  her  when 
the  truth  was  broken  to  her  that  her  idol  was  dying. 

He  lived  till  the  next  night,  when,  just  at  sunset,  he  aroused  out  of 
the  stupor  in  which  he  had  lain  for  the  past  two  days,  andlooked  around 
him  with  wistful  eyes.  His  mother  bent  overt  he  little  crib :  — 

"Johnnie,  do  you  know  me  ?  Speak  to  me,  Johnnie,  once  more  — 
tell  mamma  you  love  her." 


296 


JOHN'S  WIFE. 


He  looked  up  into  her  face,  said,  "  Mamma,"  and  then  he  looked 
around  the  room  till  his  eyes  rested  on  Prue,  who  was  weeping  silently, 
with  her  face  on  her  husband's  shoulder :  — 

"  Aunt  Prue,  take  Johnnie  —  Johnnie  is  tired." 

Prue  gave  one  deprecating  glance  at  the  jealous  rage  that  even 
in  that  moment  flamed  up  in  the  mother's  face  to  see  another  preferred 
to  herself,  and  then  Prue  bent  over  him.  But  ere  she  could  take  the 
little  head  upon  her  breast  it  was  lying  upon  a  gentler  bosom  than  even 
gentle  Aunt  Prue's.  And  doctor  Raynor  drew  his  arm  around  his  wife, 
and  whispered :  — 

"Forbid  them  not  to  go  to  Him.  Don't  cry  so,  darling  —  little 
Johnnie  will  never  be  tired  again." 


PET  AND    "MIT   PADIE.' 


FLAIR 


N  the  spring  of  1869  a  merchant,  who  had 
been  exceedingly  wealthy,  failed  in  business, 
owing  to  the  rascality  of  his  partner ;  and, 
instead  of  endeavoring  to  keep  up  appearances  in  the  city,  he  very 
wisely  collected  together  what  fragments  of  his  large  fortune  remained 
after  his  debts  were  paid,  and  removed  to  a  flourishing  inland  village. 
After  purchasing  a  small  cottage  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  lie  had 
enough  left  to  commence  business  again  in  a  small  way.  And  so, 
bravely  and  patiently,  the  grey-headed  gentleman  commenced  again  at 
the  foot  of  the  ladder,  where  he  had  been  thirty  years  before.  The 
bravery  and  uncomplaining  perseverance  of  the  old  gentleman  u  was  a 
sight  worth  seeing,  and  a  lesson  to  younger  men"  —  so  Judge  Harris 
said ;  and,  as  he  was  the  great  man  of  Harrisville,  he  ought  to  know. 
He  owned  half  the  town,  and  lived  in  a  great  mansion  that  was  the 
pride  and  delight  of  Harrisville — for  young  Judge  Harris,  unlike  some 
rich  men,  was  beloved  and  respected  by  his  fellow-townsmen.  The 
house  was  closed  now,  and  in  the  care  of  servants ;  for  the  judge  had 
gone  to  Cuba  with  his  young  wife,  in  the  hope  that  a  balmy  climate 
would  give  her  back  the  health  she  had  lost. 

Mr.  Page — for  this  was  the  merchant's  name  —  was  a  widower, 

(299) 


300  PLAIN  MISS  PAGE. 

with  two  daughters,  one  of  whom  was  so  beautiful  that  she  had  been 
known  in  society  as  the  "handsome  Miss  Page,"  her  younger  sister 
being  sometimes  called,  by  strangers,  the  "  plain  Miss  Page."  Mr. 
Page,  being  old-fashioned  in  some  of  his  ideas,  and  a  believer  in  the  old 
adage,  "  Handsome  is  that  handsome  does,"  would  have  resented  the 
idea  of  his  Mary  being  plain.  And,  in  fact,  had  it  not  been  for  the 
wonderful  beauty  of  her  sister,  no  one  would  have  thought  of  calling 
Mary  Page  plain ;  for  there  was  a  wonderfully  sweet  expression  to  her 
brown  eyes  and  her  child-like,  innocent  mouth.  But  Pauline  Page  was 
a  beauty.  Her  face  was  classic.  Her  admirers  often  thought  how 
beautiful  her  face  would  look  carved  in  marble — what  an  ornament  it 
would  be  for  some  public  park,  or,  as  a  painting,  to  hang  in  a  public  art- 
gallery,  what  a  crowd  it  would  attract !  I  will  wager,  no  such  idea  ever 
crossed  any  one's  mind  in  connection  with  sweet  Mary  Page.  If  any 
one  dreamed  of  her,  it  would  be  as  of  a  cheerful  household  fairy,  sitting 
behind  a  coffee-urn  in  a  pleasant  breakfast-room,  or  singing  some  sweet 
song  in  the  twilight,  with  a  child's  face  on  her  bosom.  They  would 
imagine  her  as  gentle,  cheerful,  and  hopeful  always,  which  would  be 
imagining  her  in  her  true  character.  And  Pauline,  it  was  only  natural 
to  picture  her  as  receiving  admiration ;  for  ever  since  strangers  stopped 
her  nurse  on  the  street  to  admire  her  in  long  clothes,  she  had  lived 
upon  the  food  of  admiration ;  and  it  had  proven  extremely  nourishing 
to  her  in  advancing  the  growth  of  sundry  qualities  in  her  nature,  which 
a  perusal  of  this  humble  tale  will  show. 

How  did  these  young  ladies  relish  the  change  from  a  brown-stone 
palace  in  the  city  and  a  cottage  at  Newport,  with  a  retinue  of  servants 
to  wait  upon  them,  to  a  life  in  this  quiet  village3  and  the  necessity  of 
buttoning  their  own  shoes  and  brushing  their  own  hair,  to  say  nothing 
of  assisting  their  one  servant  in  the  work  of  the  household  ?  I  think  I 
will  take  the  liberty  of  copying  one  or  two  letters  from  Pauline  Page  to 
her  "  bosom  friend,"  as  the  surest  way  of  discovering  her  feeling  upon 


PLAIN  MISS  PAGE. 


301 


this  subject  and  divers  others ;  for  it  is  my  belief  that  a  letter  written 
in  the  unreserve  of  intimacy  reveals  one's  soul  better  than  words  can : 

HARRISVILLE,  ) 
June,  1869.      ] 

' '  DEAREST  ANGELINA  : 
It  is  nearing  sunset,  friend 
of  my  soul ;  but  I  feel  that 
I  must  pour  out  the  feel- 
ings of  my  burdened  heart 
to  you,  my  lovely  bosom 
friend,  my  spirit's  true 
mate.  How  sweet  is  such 
communing  between  kin- 
dred souls  !  Mary  just  en- 
tered my  room,  and  in  the 
cold  practicalness  of  her 
coarser  nature,  requested 
me  to  '  go  out  with  her  and 
pick  the  garden-raspber- 
ries.' She  said  that  to-mor- 
row was  ironing  and  baking 
day,  and  Bridget  wouldn't 
get  any  time  to  pick  them, 
and  they  were  spoiling  up- 
on the  vines,  and  they 
would  be  unfit  to  can  if 
they  were  not  picked  at 
once. 

"That  is  just  like  Ma- 
ry —  to  come  here  into  my 
room,  where  I  was  sitting 
by  the  open  window,  trying 
to  forget  my  despair  and 
sorrow  in  contemplation  of 
the  glory  of  the  sunset -hour 
and  soul-communion  with 


302 


PLAIN  MISS  PAGE. 


you,  dearest,  and  disturb  me,  and  bring  me  back  again  to  the  dreary  treadmill  of 
actual  life,  with  her  cold  calculation  —  her  worldly  talk  about  'canning  raspberries' 
Of  course  I  refused  her  request,  firmly  and  decidedly:  but  it  pains  me,  darling,  to 
think  there  is  so  little  soul-communion  and  heart-acquaintance  between  us  when  we 
are  so  utterly  dependent  now  upon  each  other's  society.  I  hear  her  now  in  the  garden, 

at  the  rear  of  the  house.  She  is  engaged,  I 
suppose,  in  the  menial  employment  she  men- 
tioned; but  still  —  if  you  can  believe  it,  An- 
gelina—  she  is  humming  a  fragment  of  an 
Italian  opera,  with  apparently  as  light  a  heart 
as  she  used  to  warble  it  in  our  magnificent 
drawing-room  in  the  city.  Ah!  the  iron  does 
not  enter  her  soul  as  it  does  mine.  Sometimes 
I  wish  I  possessed  her  cold,  heartless,  indiffer- 
g^  ent  nature.  For,  dearest 

one,  the  blow  has  fallen  — 
father  is  ruined.  We  have 
left  our  brown-stone  palace 
in  Fifth  Avenue,  and  have 
retired  to  this  hovel  in  the 
wilderness. 

"  The  latter  part  of  the 
foregoing  sentence,  love, 
was  the  imagery  of  a  de- 
spairing soul.  The  hovel 
is,  literally,  a  two-story 
white  cottage,  and  the  wil- 
derness is  a  village  in  the 
interior  of  the  state.  Fa- 
ther has  entered  into  busi- 
ness here,  in  a  very  small 
way,  and  seems  more  like 
himself  than  he  did  before 
our  removal  here.  Mary 

is  always  cheerful,  and  even  mirthful,  in  his  presence.  But  my  soul  is  made  of  far 
finer  materials.  Not  a  smile  has  father  seen  upon  my  face  since  the  day  he  came  in 
and  said,  '  Girls,  I  am  ruined  1 ' 

"  I  cannot  forget  that  it  lay  in  father's  power  to  make  his  failure  result  even  advan- 


THE   HOVEL. 


PLAIN  MISS  PAGE.  3Qg 

tageously  to  himself,  had  it  not  been  for  his  and  Mary's  overstrained  ideas  of  honor  and 
honesty.  No  one  —  not  even  the  most  heartless  enemy  I  possess  —  could  accuse  me  of  a 
lack  of  religion.  You  recollect,  love,  how  deeply  I  was  affected  the  day  I  was  con- 
firmed. How  plainly  I  recollect  how  chastely  elegant  was  the  new  silk  dress  I  wore 
upon  that  occasion.  And  you  well  know,  love,  how  steadily  and  constantly  I  attended 
church,  upon  pleasant  days,  when  one  could  go  without  endangering  their  best  apparel. 
No  one  can  accuse  me  of  a  lack  of  religion ;  but  I  think  —  and  I  told  them  so,  plainly  — 
that  such  consciences  as  father  and  Mary  possess  are  extremely  inconvenient.  I  will 
use  no  harsher  term ;  for  I  cannot  forget,  even  after  all  that  has  passed,  that  they  are 
my  father  and  sister  still. 

4 '  Since  our  arrival  here  I  have  remained  in  my  room  almost  constantly;  and 
Mary  —  who,  I  confess,  has  some  good  ordinary  household  qualities  —  has  made  it  the 
pleasantest  room  in  the  house,  with  the  exception  of  father's.  She  insisted  on  giving 
him  the  best  and  airiest  chamber  in  the  house.  And  she  really  seems  to  take  as  much 
delight  in  ornamenting  these  common  rooms  with  fresh  flowers,  and  in  playing  ta 
father  in  the  evening  on  the  little  parlor-organ,  as  she  used  to  in  gathering  the  rare 
flowers  in  our  conservatory,  or  playing  on  our  grand  piano — which,  you  know, 
love,  cost  fifteen  hundred  dollars  in  Paris. 

"But  why  recall  these  holy  and  cherished  joys  of  the  past?  It  is  all  past.  The 
splendor  vanished  like  a  sacred  dream,  too  sweet  to  stay.  And  the  desert  pathway  of 
life  stretches  before  the  feet  of  your  Pauline. 

"  The  sun  hath  sunk  behind  the  dreary  horizon,  and  I  must  close  this  lengthy  epis- 
tle, by  subscribing  myself  your  ever-loving,  but  despairing,  "PAULINE.  ' 

"  HAKRISBUKG,  July,  1869. 

"  O  MY  DEABEST  ANGELINA:  I  have  just  returned  from  a  funeral.  Such  a  touch- 
ing scene!  My  sensitive  heart  was  so  affected  by  it,  that  I  should  have  shed  tears  copi- 
ously had  I  not  unfortunately  gone  to  the  church  unprovided  with  any  handkerchief 
only  my  best  point  lace,  which  I  had  newly  done  up,  and  which  I  fear  will  not  come 
safely  through  another  washing.  But  my  tears,  if  I  did  not  allow  them  to  overflow  my 
eyelids,  fell  sorrowfully  upon  my  heart,  as  I  saw  that  noble  mourner,  Judge  Harris, 
with  his  cherub  little  one,  stand  by  the  grave  of  her  young  mother. 

"  As  they  went  to  lower  the  coffin  in  the  ground,  the  little  cherub- daughter,  aged 
about  four,  who  had  evidently  been  informed  that  her  mother  was  going  to  some  beau- 
tiful place,  sprang  forward  and  told  them,  in  the  broken  language  of  artless  childhood, 
*  that  they  should  not  put  her  pretty  mamma  in  the  ground.'  And  then  she  turned  and 
threw  herself  into  her  father's  arms,  and  cried  to  him  to  stop  them,  to  '  not  let  them  put 
her  mamma  down  in  the  ground.' 


304 


PLAIN  MISS  PAGE. 


"  Judge  Harris's  noble  and  beautiful  countenance  was  pale  as  the  snowy  flowers 
that  rested  on  the  coffin-lid,  as  he  took  her  up  in  his  arms,  and  laid  his  cheek  down 
upon  hers,  trying  to  soothe  her.  Ah !  at  this  moment  how  earnestly  I  regretted  that  I 
had  taken  a  handkerchief  unsuitable  for  this  sorrowful  and  deeply-touching  occasion. 

"  Mary,  with  her 
usual  reckless  and  selfish 
disregard  for  consequen^ 
ces,  clung  to  my  arm, 
and,  hiding  her  face  on 
my  shoulder,  sobbed  out, 
•  Oh,  the  poor  little  dar- 
ling!' I  freed  myself 
from  contact  with  her 
wet  face  as  speedily  as 
possible,  but  not  soon 
enough  to  prevent  disas- 
trous consequences;  and 
there  is  a  spot  on  the 
shoulder  of  my  silver 
poplin  as  large  as  a  tea- 
cup. But  Mary  has 
promised  to  exchange 
dresses  with  me,  and,  as 
hers  has  not  been  worn 
scarcely  any,  and  is  of 
nicer  material  than  mine 
ever  was,  I  feel  measur- 
ably consoled  for  the 
needless  accident. 

"  Had  not  my  atten- 
tion been  entirely  en- 
grossed, dearest  Angeli- 
na, by  that  beautiful 
mourner — he  is  the  hand- 
somest man  I  ever  saw, 
love,  and  as  rich  as  a  Jew  —  I  should  have  been  very  much  interested  in  the  young  clergy- 
man, he  repeated  the  solemn  service  so  impressively. 

"Howl  love  our  Mother  Church,  Angelina!    How  I  admire  its  holy  teachings! 


THE    BURIAL. 


PLAIN  MISS  PAGE. 


305 


What  can  be  more  sweet  and .  impres- 
sive than  the  burial  service,  as  it  was 
read  over  that  young  wife,  unless  in- 
deed, it  is  the  service  of  marriage? 
There  is  something  so  sweet  and  heav- 
enly in  it,  where  it  says,  'With  all 
my  worldly  goods  I  thee  endow.' 

"What  can  be  more  affecting 
and  divine  than  that?  These  words 
came  into  my  mind  involuntarily,  even 
as  I  stood  there  and  looked  at  the 
bowed  head  of  that  lovely  and  wealthy 
widower.  As  I  said,  if  I  had  not  been 
so  much  engrossed  by  these  religious 
reflections,  and  overcome  by  the  con- 
templations of  manly  sorrow,  I  should 
have  been  most  favorably  impressed 
by  the  young  clergyman;  and,  darling, 
though  perhaps  it  is  improper  to  speak 
of  it,  I  caught  his  eye  fastened  upon 
my  face  several  times.  A^id,  to  you 
I  may  say  it,  it  seemed  to  read  my 
very  soul. 

"  Clergymen  have  such  a  penetra- 
ting way  of  looking  at  one,  especially 
if  they  are  young  and  unmarried,  and 
the  lady  is  beautiful.  Yes,  to  you, 
to  whom  I  confide  all  the  treasured 
secrets  of  my  heart,  I  would  not  at- 
tempt to  deny  that  I  cannot  fail  to  be 
aware  that  my  face  possesses  attrac- 
tions, and  that  I  have  received  the  des- 
ignation of  the  'handsome  Miss  Page.' 

"One  more  heart-trial  I  must 
reveal  to  you,  dearest  consoler,  and 
then  I  must  pause,  for  I  must  not 
weary  my  Angelina.  Mary  has  open- 
ed a  school  for  children.  Several  weeks  ag( 
20 


earnest  objections,  my 


306  PLAIN  MISS  PAGE. 

prayers  for  her  to  save  our  respectability,  and  desist  from  her  low-bred  scheme,  that 
self-willed  girl  actually  opened  a  school.  She  said  '  she  would  not  let  father  toil  alone. 
We  were  young,  and  we  ought  to  help  him.' 

"I  tried  reasoning  at  first.  I  said  to  her  as  calmly  as  I  could,  while  my  blood  wa& 
boiling  with  indignation  at  her: 

' ' '  That,  as  society  was  organized  at  present,  it  was  men's  duty  to  toil  and  support 
whatever  number  of  helpless  women  Providence  had  placed  under  their  guardian- 
ship.' 

"But  she  still  remained  obdurate;  and  then  I  wept  as  I  besought  her  to  abandon 
her  disgraceful  plan.  And  when  you  recollect,  dear,  how  ruinous  weeping  always  was 
to  my  complexion,  you  will  realize  how  deeply  I  felt  this  last  disgrace  that  has  over- 
shadowed us. 

"But,  adieu,  sweet  soul.  I  must  not  shadow  your  sunny  pathway  —  is  it  as  warm, 
dear,  at  Long  Branch  this  season  as  it  was  in  the  long  ago?  —  by  the  dark  clouds  that 
enwrap  Pauline.  Think  of  me  sometimes,  sweet  one,  as  you  stand  by  the  wild  water- 
side, listening  to  its  solemn  voice,  and  the  low  sweet  w^ords  of  your  admirers,  or  as  you 
whirl  through  the  waltz  mazes,  guided  and  assisted  by  a  manly  arm — oh!  in  those  holy 
hours,  lost  to  me  forevennore  —  give  one  thought  to  your  afflicted,  but  ever-loving, 

"PAULINE." 

"  HARRISVILLE,  June,  1871. 

"MY  DEAREST  SOUL:  If  I  have  not  written  to  my  sweet  girl  for  four  long  weeks,, 
it  is  not  f orgetfulness,  but  business,  that  has  caused  the  dreary  hiatus.  My  hands  and 
mind  have  been  burdened,  but,  my  soul,  my  heart  hath  been  with  thee  incessantly. 

"Is  it  not  strange,  dear,  and  beautiful  to  realize,  how,  out  of  what  we  consider  our 
greatest  afflictions,  good  may  arise?  You  will,  of  course,  recollect  Mary's  children's 
school,  which  she  started  nearly  two  years  ago,  and  which  was  such  a  trial  to  my 
proud,  sensitive  nature.  Well,  dearest,  it  would  seem  that  Providence,  realizing  and 
pitying  my  mortification  in  that  direction,  alleviated  my  soul's  pangs  by  instigating  Mr. 
Harris  to  bring  his  little  daughter  here  to  school. 

•'  You  know  I  wrote  you  that  he  had  been  abroad  with  his  child  and  her  nurse  ever 
since  his  wife's  death;  but  he  returned  a  few  weeks  since,  and  brought  his  little 
daughter  here. 

"  He  said  that  he  thought  at  first  he  would  obtain  a  governess  for  her,  but  had 
decided  that  being  with  other  children  would  be  better  for  her  than  to  be  alone  with 
grown  people  in  that  great  lonesome  house. 

"Oh,  dearest,  would  I  could  transcribe  on  this  cold  paper  the  interesting  sigh  he   . 
gave,  involuntarily,  as  he  mentioned  the  loneliness  of  his  house! 


PLAIN  MISS  PAGE.  307 

"Angelina,  he  is  perfectly  beautiful!  He  has  the  most  splendid  large,  dark  eyes, 
with  long  lashes,  and  such  a  sweet,  winning  smile,  and  real  diamond  cuff -buttons  —  the 
coldest  critic  would  recognize  those  at  a  glance  —  such  elegant  wavy  brown  hair,  such 
a  broad,  white  forehead  —  such  perfectly-shaped  hands.  His  little  daughter,  Pet  —  her 
name  is,  in  reality,  Marcia,  but  he  always  calls  her  Pet  —  she  clung  to  one  of  those 
white,  aristocratic,  elegantly-shaped  hands  all  the  time  during  our  first  interview. 
They  showed  to  good  advantage  then;  but  to  see  them  to  noblest  advantage  you  should 
behold  them  in  their  perfectly-fitting  kids,  driving  his  noble  grey  horses,  attached  to 
a  light  buggy.  He  has  an  elegant  carriage  and  coachman,  of  course.  But  he  seems 
fond  of  driving  himself.  When  he  rides  in  his  carriage  Pet  is  always  with  him. 

"  In  waking  visions  it  may  be  that  I  have  seen  a  beautiful  lady  opposite  him,  lean- 
ing back  against  the  luxurious  satin  cushions,  attired  in  the  latest  style. 

"But  no  more  of  this.  There  are  some  thoughts  too  sacred,  too  holy  to  reveal  even 
to  thee,  twin  soul  of  mine. 

"Perhaps  I  mentioned  that  I  received  them  alone.  Mary  is  always  busy.  It  is  a 
constitutional  weakness  of  hers,  that  she  inherited  from  father.  (I  received  my  sensi- 
tive feelings  and  my  refined  spiritual  nature  from  my  mother,  who  was  a  genteel,  fash- 
ionable woman,  in  every  sense  of  the  word.)  As  I  said,  Mary  was  busy;  and  as  I  am 
always  anxious  to  do  my  part  in  life,  and  was  attired  becomingly  in  a  pale  blue  morning 
dress,  I  offered  to  receive  them  alone.  And  since  then  —  for  you,  who  know  me  so 
well,  know  how  earnestly  I  follow  the  path  of  duty  —  I  have  always  received  him 
whenever  he  has  called,  for  I  will  not  disturb  Mary  by  calling  her  from  her  labors,  in 
which  she  takes  such  delight. 

"  Either  Mr.  Harris  or  a  servant  brings  little  Pet  every  morning  and  comes  for  her 
at  night.  Last  night  she  insisted  upon  staying  all  night,  and,  as  her  father  was 
absent  upon  business  and  she  absolutely  refused  to  go  home,  the  servant  was  obliged  to 
leave  her. 

"Mr.  Harris,  who  returned  late  at  night,  called  this  morning  and  apologized  for 
the  trouble  she  made  me  by  staying.  Of  course,  I  told  him,  instead  of  a  trouble,  it 
was  a  great  delight  to  have  the  dear,  sweet  little  creature  with  me.  But,  to  tell  the 
plain  truth,  love,  I  never  see  any  of  the  children,  not  even  little  Pet,  only  when  her 
father  is  with  her.  I  am,  constitutionally,  averse  to  children.  I  inherited  it  from  my 
lady-like  mother,  who,  I  am  told,  left  me  entirely  to  the  care  of  nurses.  Father,  I  am 
told,  for  some  reason,  when  Mary  was  born,  declared  he  would  take  care  of  her  him- 
self, and  he  kept  her  with  him  almost  constantly.  I  have  thought  sometimes  that  being 
so  constantly  with  father  is  what  makes  her  so  different  from  me  —  so  much  less  spirit- 
ual, so  much  less  finely  organizecj. 

"  As  I  said,  love,  I  am  not  fond  of  children.     My  nerves  are  too  sympathetic,  my 


308  PLAIN  MISS  PAGE. 

nature  is  too  delicately  attuned  to  endure  the  care  that  childhood  inevitably  causes. 
In  case  of  any  children  coming  under  my  permanent  care,  either  my  own  or  by  mar- 
riage, I  should  employ  nurses  and  governesses  to  relieve  me  of  all  attendance  upon 
them. 

"  Mary  being  made  of  coarser  material,  it  seems  an  actual  delight  to  her  to  have 
them  hanging  about  her.  Little  Pet  would  insist  upon  sleeping  with  her  last  night. 
And  after  they  retired  to  Mary's  room,  the  thought  occurred  to  me  whether  it  would 
not  be  advisable,  under  certain  circumstances,  to  secure  Mary  as  a  nursery  governess. 
"What  those  certain  circumstances  are,  love,  I  cannot  at  present  reveal,  as  it  would  be 
improper  to  refer,  even  to  you,  to  events  that  may  take  place  in  the  future.  But  you  do 
not  blame  me.  dear,  do  you,  for  thus  generously  thinking  of  the  welfare  of  others  in 
case  great  wealth  should  come  to  me? 

"  Mary  is  eminently  fitted  by  nature  for  the  care  of  children,  and,  by  making  her  a 
nursery  governess,  it  would  be  to  give  her  employment  singularly  congenial  to  her. 
There  is,  dearest,  something  poetical  and  lovely  in  the  innocent,  unaffected  caresses  and 
endearments  of  childhood.  But  I  never  encourage  any  advances  from  them,  they  are 
so  crushing  to  collars  and  ruffles.  And  then  there  is  usually  an  odor  of  bread  and  but- 
ter about  them  that,  to  one  of  so  spiritual  a  temperament  as  I  possess,  is  inexpressibly 
revolting.  Bread  and  butter,  dearest,  is  so,  of  the  earth,  earthy.  I  cannot  write  more, 
love,  now,  for  the  shades  of  night  are  fast  enveloping  the  sleeping  earth.  Adieu,  dear- 
est love,  adieu.  Your  own 

"PAULINE." 

I  think  I  will  not  transcribe  any  more  of  Pauline's  letters ;  but 
many  of  like  import  did  she  write  to  her  "  spirit's  mate"  during  the 
early  summer  of  1871.  For  this  labor,  together  with  frizzing  and  curl- 
ing her  hair,  admiring  herself  in  the  largest  mirror  in  the  house,  which 
was  in  her  room,  making  as  elaborate  toilets  as  she  could  with  her  own 
and  her  sister's  wardrobe,  constituted  her  only  employment  —  or,  we 
are  wrong,  one  other  employment  she  had,  to  which  she  gave  most 
thought  and  care — the  entertaining  of  Mr.  Harris  when  he  called. 

And  she  made  many  opportunities  of  meeting  him  on  the  street,  at 
church,  at  the  post-office,  at  the  houses  of  mutual  friends. 

Mr.  Harris  was  courteous  to  her,  as  to  all  other  women ;  in  fact, 
perhaps,  he  evinced  a  little  partiality  for  the  society  of  Pauline.  If  so,  it 
was  not  singular,  for  her  beauty  was  certainly  something  remarkable. 


PLAIN  MISS  PAGE.  309 

But  in  all  this  time  Mr.  Harris  had  not  met  the  "  plain  Miss  Page.'* 
Pet,  who  was  eloquent  in  her  praise,  had  awakened  in  her  father's  mind 
a  desire  to  behold  the  one  who  had  been  so  kind  to  his  child.  But  it 
seemed  exceedingly  difficult  of  accomplishment. 

Mr.  Page  attended  church  at  a  little  village  near  by,  whose  clergy- 
man had  been  an  old  college  friend,  and  Mary  always  accompanied  him. 
She  did  not  go  into  society  at  all,  as  her  days  were  devoted  to  her 
school,  and  her  evenings  to  her  father ;  and  when  Mr.  Harris  called 
there,  Pauline  was  too  conscientious,  too  firm  a  follower  of  duty,  to 
call  Mary  from  her  labors. 

There  was  a  balloon  ascension  at  the  Harrisville  Fair  Grounds,  and 
all  the  village  turned  out,  en  masse,  to  witness  it. 

Pauline  was  there,  and  Mary;  for,  of  course,  the  idea  of  school 
diitu's  upon  that  great  day  was  too  absurd  for  the  children  to  entertain 
for  a  moment.  But  I  am  afraid  Mary  was  not  having  a  very  brilliant 
time.  Pauline  was,  for  some  reason,  out  of  temper ;  her  stock  of  tem- 
per was  always  very  low,  but  to-day  she  snubbed  Mary  unmercifully, 
and  the  toadies  of  village  girls,  who  made  the  fashionable,  self-asserting 
Pauline  their  model,  and  their  shallow-pated  beaux  followed,  as  in  duty 
bound,  her  example.  She  had  just  made  the  suggestion  to  Pauline, 
that  she  should  go  home,  for  she  was  tired. 

Pauline  told  her  with  exceeding  earnestness,  "  not  to  be  an 
idiot." 

"  But  I  don't  like  to  stay  any  longer,  Pauline.  It  is  really  tire- 
some to  me." 

"  Well,  I  wish  you  to  stay.  How  it  would  look  for  you  to  go  home 
this  time  of  day,  just  as  if  you  had  to  work  so  hard  you  couldn't  afford 
to  spend  an  hour  or  two.  I  declare,  it  seems  as  if  you  can't  endure  to 
see  me  having  a  minute's  pleasure  or  recreation  without  your  wishing  to 
spoil  it  in  some  way.  It  is  perfectly  astonishing,  as  I  wrote  to  Ange- 
lina yesterday,  how  selfish  some  people  can  be ! " 


310  PLAIN  MISS  PAGE. 

Just  at  that  moment  an  elegant  carriage  drove  slowly  a  little  past 
them,  and  stopped.  As  the  coachman  reined  up  the  horses  in  a  good 
position  to  command  a  view  of  the  ascension,  a  little  sweet  voice 
called  out : 

"  Mit  Padie,  Mit  Padie,  turn  here,  and  see  my  papa ! " 

Mr.  Harris  smiled  a  little,  as  he  followed  Pet's  eager  look,  and  met 
the  glance  of  a  confused,  but,  he  thought,  a  very  sweet-looking  face. 
And  he  evidently  made  some  effort  to  restrain  Pet's  ardor  ;  but  in  vain, 
for  she  cried,  loudly  : 

"  I  want  my  pitty  Mit  Padie,  papa."  She  leaned  her  little  golden 
head  out  of  the  window,  and  cried,  "  Mit  Padie,  Mit  Padie ! " 

One  of  the  very  shallowest-brained  of  the  village  girls  said  to 
Pauline,  in  a  shrill  voice,  broken  by  the  inevitable  giggle,  that  "  Mr. 
Harris  had  learned  little  Pet  her  lesson  well." 

With  a  satisfied  and  conscious  look,  Pauline  gently  chided  her  for 
her  speech,  and  then  she  advanced  to  the  carriage  window. 

"  Dear  little  cherub,  how  loving  and  impulsive  she  is  !  Then  you 
are  glad  to  see  me,  darling  ? " 

But  Pet  did  not  even  deign  her  a  glance.  Her  impatient  eyes 
sought  the  quiet  little  figure  behind  Pauline,  and  almost  hidden  by 
her  voluminous  drapery. 

"  I  want  my  Mit  Padie." 

And,  quick  as  a  flash  of  light,  Pet  opened  the  carriage  door,  and, 
running  up  to  Mary,  clasped  her  hands  round  her  knees,  and  looking 
up  in  her  face,  with  all  her  golden  hair  streaming  back  from  it,  she 
exclaimed : 

"  We  dot  'oo  now,  Mit  Padie ;  'oo  tant  dit  away  adin." 

Mr.  Harris  had  followed  Pet  from  the  carriage ;  and  as  Mary 
lifted  her  face  from  Pet's — for  she  couldn't  help  kissing  the  sweet 
little  eager,  upturned  face  the  very  first  thing — her  sister  introduced 
her  to  him. 


PLAIN  MISS  PAGE.  311 

And  then  followed  such  earnest  prayers,  in  very  broken  language, 
for  "  her  Hit  Padie  to  wide,"  that  Pauline  and  Mary  could  do  no  less 
than  accept  Mr.  Harris's  invitation  to  ride  about  the  grounds. 

Once  seated  in  the  carriage,  Pet  looked  at  the  captive  Mary  with 
abundant  content,  and  said : 

"  See's  my  pitty  Mit  Padie.     I  sep  with  her,  I  did,  wite  in  a  bed." 

She  said  this  with  a  solemn  air,  as  if  sleeping  in  a  bed  were  an 
incredible  feat,  but  still  she  and  "  her  Mit  Padie  "  had  accomplished  it. 
And  then  other  reminiscences  of  that  notable  visit  occurred  to  her. 

"  I  said  my  payers,  I  did,  to  my  Mit  Padie  'fore  me  went  to  seep. 
I  say, '  Mit  Padie,  I  want  to  say  my  payers  to  'oo  des  I  did  to  my 
mamma.'  See  say, *  'Oo  sail,  dear,  'oo  want  to.'  So  I  kneeled  wite 
•down,  'n  see  put  her  hand  on  my  head  des  my  mamma  did.  I  love  my 
Mit  Padie,  I  do." 

All  that  afternoon  Pet  clung  to  "  her  Mit  Padie."  She  wouldn't 
suffer  her  to  leave  her ;  and  after  the  festivities  were  over  the  dignified 
coachman  was  directed  to  drive  the  elegant  carriage  to  the  humble  resi- 
dence of  Mr.  Page.  And  his  master,  not  nearly  so  exclusive  and 
haughty  as  he,  assisted  therefrom  the  "  plain  Miss  Page  and  her 
handsome  sister." 

After  this  eventful  day,  Mr.  Harris  called  oftener  at  Mr.  Page's, 
and  invariably  asked  for  Miss  Mary.  But  she  was  always  invisible. 
Whether  she  received  private  admonitions  to  this  effect  from  her  sister 
has  not  been  proven.  But  she  was  always  invisible.  Pauline  was 
visible. 

But  it  chanced  at  about  this  time  Pet  was  taken  sick,  and  noth- 
ing would  content  her  but  "  her  Mit  Padie." 

And  so  Mr.  Harris  sent  the  carriage  for  her.  It  returned  bearing 
Miss  Pauline.  "  Mary  was  busy,  so  she  had  come  in  her  place." 

Pet  refused  to  so  much  as  speak  to  her,  but  continued  to  cry  "  for 
her  pitty  Mit  Padie,"  until  Mr.  Harris  volunteered  to  go  for  her. 


312  PLAIN  MISS  PAGE. 

Mary,  who  had  heard  nothing  of  Pet's  sickness,  was  working  by 
the  gate  amongst  her  flowers.  She  drew  off  her  gardening  gloves,  and 
in  her  garden  hat,  pink  lawn  dress,  and  white  apron,  professed  herself 
ready  to  go  with  him.  And  in  half  an  hour  after,  Pet,  in  abundant 
content,  went  to  sleep  in  her  arms. 

They  made  a  pretty  picture  —  a  sweet,  tender,  household  picture  — 
that  haunted  Mr.  Harris  on  his  lonely  homeward  drive,  for  he  insisted 
on  taking  her  home  himself. 

Pet's  sickness  proved  rather  serious,  and  Mary,  in  spite  of  all  sis- 
terly admonitions  of  the  exceeding  impropriety  of  the  act,  went  to  see 
her  as  often  as  Mr.  Harris  came  for  her,  and  that  was  quite  frequent. 
She  carried  light  and  sunshine  and  happiness  into  the  sick  room,  and 
she  carried  out  of  it  a  heart  she  had  won  unwittingly. 

Whether  she  left  her  own  heart  in  the  great  house,  which,  although 
it  was  so  filled  with  rare  treasures,  contained  nothing  so  true  and  price- 
less, it  was  difficult  to  judge,  for  Mary  was  very  quiet,  and  had  no 
bosom  friend,  except  her  father. 

But  one  lovely  twilight,  in  October,  Mr.  Harris  waylaid  her  in  a 
remote  garden  path,  into  which  she  had  turned  at  his  approach. 

She  and  Pet  had  been  laughing  and  pelting  each  other  with  the 
crimson  and  golden  autumn  leaves,  among  which  Pet  was  playing  now, 
at  a  little  distance. 

Mary  was  vanishing  in  the  direction  of  the  house,  as  we  said ;  but 
with  dire  intent  Mr.  Harris  stopped  her. 

"  I  wish  I  were  as  fortunate  as  Pet,  Miss  Page." 

"  Why  so  ?  "  said  Mary,  still  evincing  a  strong  disposition  to  flee 
toward  the  house,  Pauline's  face  looking  out  of  the  parlor  window 
seeming  to  encourage  her  in  this  disposition. 

"  Because  you  talk  with  Pet.  You  never  avoid  her.  You  seem 
to  love  her." 

As  many  another  woman  has  done  before,  and  will  probably  con- 


PLAIN  MISS  PAGE. 


313 


tinue  to  do  in  time  to  come,  Mary  tried  to  hide  her  confusion,  her  happy 
heart-beats,  by  light,  laughing  words.     And  so  he  went  on : 

"  You  don't  run  away  from  her  love,"  he  said. 

"  Well,  you  know  I  am  her  l  Mit  Padie.' " 

*'  Well,  wont  you  be  mine  ?  " 

Her  precise  answer 
hath  not  been  recorded ; 

x-J  -*s 

but  it  is  supposed  to 
have  been  encouraging, 
for  just  at  that  minute 
Pet,  looking  up,  saw 
her  papa  kiss  "  her  Mit 
Padie."  The  shrubbery 
hid  them  from  Pauline ; 
!>i it  such  news  cannot 
be  hidden  long. 

Note-paper  could 
not  be  obtained  for  a 
week  after  at  Harris- 
ville,  the  "  handsome 
Miss  Page "  having 
drained  the  market. 

It  was  reported 
that  one  match  was 
broken  up  in  conse- 
quence of  the  frenzied 
lover  being  obliged  to 
write  to  his  fiancSe  up- 
on foolscap.  But,  be  that  as  it  may,  Pauline's  bosom  friend,  Angelina,  re- 
ceived quires  of  anguish,  of  lamentations  over  the  selfishness  of  all  beings, 
sisters  especially,  of  blasted  hopes,  and  weariness  of  the  desert  world. 


THE  PROPOSAL. 


314 


PLAIN  MISS  PAGE. 


Geology  hath  its  periods;  so  does  the  human  heart.  After  this 
era  —  which  might  be  termed  a  conglomerate  of  sandstone  and  black 
ink  —  her  life  advanced  into  a  more  green  and  gracious  period.  She 
attended  church  with  great  regularity,  and  the  young  clergyman,  "with 
penetrating  eyes,"  became  a  frequent  guest  of  hers. 

Who  can  tell  what  the  discipline  of  love  and  poverty  may  effect, 
even  in  such  a  nature  as  hers  ? 


THE   MEETING. 


OR  thirty  years  Miss  Higgins  had  looked 
under  her  bed  every  night,  and  had  never 
found  a  man  there  yet ;  still  she  looked. 
Whether  it  was  fear  that  impelled  that  death- 
less research,  or  a  fatality  that  was  beckoning 
her  to  her  fate,  I  knew  not.  It  would  seem,  however,  to  be  the  former, 
for  she  had  often  been  heard  to  observe,  "  that,  of  all  the  abominations 
on  earth,  a  man  was  the  most  abominable." 

Indeed,  at  the  informal  tea-drinkings  of  the  allied  forces  of  Ches- 
terville,  the  three  Misses  Wheeler  and  the  two  Misses  Jones,  she  had 
often  excelled  them  all  in  the  withering  tone  with  which  she  would 
repeat,  "  Man !  man !  "  and  no  one  could  breathe  greater  defiance  at 
this  foeman  than  she.  It  was  at  one  of  these  tea-parties  that  they  had 
entered  into  a  solemn  compact  that,  in  the  event  of  women's  rights 
giving  either  of  these  allies  sovereign  power  over  the  nation,  an  Eastern 
law  was  to  be  by  them  imported  and  improved,  and  husbands  burned 
with  the  dead  bodies  of  their  wives. 

As  Eunice  Higgins  well  remarked,  "That  would  put  an  end  to  wid- 

(317) 


318  MI&8  HIG  GINS'  MAN 

owers  pretty  lived."  And  with  this  remark  the  Hyson  flowed  and  the 
wassail  went  on,  with  such  spirit  that  Aurelia  Wilder,  the  most  rad- 
ical, added  another  clause  :  "  That  the  children  of  widowers  should  be 
thro  wed  in  too,  and  not  be  a  botherin'  other  women."  This  was  also 
well  received. 

Now  if  any  one  thinks  that  Miss  Eunice  Higgins  was  a  woman 
devoid  of  virtues  and  womanly  graces,  I  pity  them,  they  are  so  utterly 
mistaken.  She  had  assisted  a  drunken  father  through  the  world  till  he 
made  his  exit,  sustained  and  supported  a  feeble  mother  and  three  or 
four  children,  older  but  more  helpless  than  she,  till  the  mother  went 
home  to  her  reward,  and  the  children  had  found  flourishing  homes  for 
themselves,  with  the  exception  of  the  eldest  son,  who  had  followed  his 
father's  footsteps,  literally.  Indeed,  when  one  contemplates  the  speci- 
mens of  manhood  she  had  been  most  familiar  with,  her  aversion  to  the 
sex  does  not  seem  so  wonderful.  She  was  now  shrewd-eyed,  but  good 
and  kindly-looking.  No  home  was  brighter  than  hers.  No  farm  better 
managed. 

The  night  on  which  commences  my  humble  history,  Miss  Higgins 
went  to  her  room  in  unusual  good  humor.  She  had  had  a  tea-party. 
The  allies  had  all  been  present,  and  had  admitted  unanimously  that 
such  fragrant  tea,  such  snowy  biscuits  and  honey,  such  golden  Gutter, 
such  cakes  and  sweetmeats  had  not  been  partaken  of  that  season.  The 
scene  of  her  benign  victory  rose  before  her  as  she  took  off  the  little 
switch  of  hair  at  the  backside  of  her  head,  and  pensively  rolled  it  up 
ere  she  put  it  in  the  top  bureau  drawer. 

She  saw  again  the  sinking  sun  shining  in  through  her  house  plants 
in  the  window,  upon  the  crimson  drugget  of  the  dining-room,  the  snowy 
tea-table,  with  its  silver  and  pink-sprigged  china,  the  admiring  faces  of 
her  friends  as  they  partook  of  her  delicious  food.  But  one  memory  dis- 
quieted her :  She  almost  mistrusted  her  lemon  extract  was  losing  its 
strength  ;  the  frosting  on  the  fruit  cake  didn't  seem  to  be  flavored  quite 


MISS  HIGGINS'     MAN. 


319 


high  enough.     But  this  haunting  memory  was  softened  by  the  thought 
that  she  could  get  a  new  bottle  to-morrow. 

By  this  time  she  was  arrayed  in  her  long  white  night-dress  and 
night-cap.  She  folded  up  every  article  of  clothing,  and  laid  it  down  at 
right-angles,  she  locked  up  her  breast-pin,  and  then,  impelled  by  fate, 
she  calmly  advanced  to  the  side  of  the  bed,  and  raised  the  snowy  count- 
erpane, gave  one  shriek,  and  fell  backward  on  the  carpet,  striking  her 
head  as  she  did  so,  on  a  chair-rocker.  There  was  her  man  under  the  bed. 


H  ! 


Miss  Higgins  had  often  fancied  how  she  would  awe  such  a  robber, 
such  a  burglar,  with  her  fearless  and  searching  glances ;  how  she  would 
defend  her  property  with  her  life.  Let  us  not  be  too  hard  with  her. 
She  is  not  the  only  one  of  us  who  has  found  that  it  is  more  easy  to 
dream  of  great  achievements  than  to  accomplish  them.  She  is  not  the 
only  one  who,  at  the  first  shock,  has  shrieked  and  tumbled  down  before 
adverse  fate. 


320  MI8S  HIGGINS'  MAN. 

But  Eunice  Higgins  was  not  one  to  wither  away  before  a  calamity. 
Not  long  did  she  lie  there  ;  but,  as  short  a  time  as  it  was,  when  she 
lifted  her  head  her  man  confronted  her.  He  was  a  very  small  man, 
indeed,  not  more  than  seven  years  old,  and  small  at  that ;  very  good- 
looking  and  well  clothed,  although  exceedingly  dishevelled  and  uncom- 
fortable in  appearance. 

"  How  came  you  here  under  my  bed  ? " 

This  was  the  first  question ;  but  it  was  repeated  before  he 
answered,  with  drooping  head  and  glances : 

"  I've  runned  away/' 

"  Run  away  from  where  ?  " 

"From  our  folks's  house." 

"  Who  is  your  folks  ?  " 

"  Father." 

Here  the  dialogue  terminated  suddenly,  Eunice  Higgins  becoming 
suddenly  conscious  that  a  night-gown  and  night-cap  were  not  the  proper 
raiment  in  which  to  entertain  even  so  small  a  man  Out  in  the  pleas- 
ant sitting-room,  beneath  the  warm  light  of  kerosene  gleaming  through 
rose-geraniums  and  the  keener  light  of  Eunice  Higgins's  eyes,  the 
inquisition  was  continued,  from  whicli  these  facts  were  gleaned  :  that 
the  boy,  Johnny  Dale,  had  been  so  tried  with  his  father,  because  he 
wouldn't  let  him  go  to  a  circus,  that  he  had  run  away.  It  was  early  in 
the  morning,  he  said,  and  he  had  got  a  ride  with  a  teamster,  and  had 
rode  with  him  till  afternoon  ;  so  he  must  have  come  some  distance. 
After  the  teamster  stopped  he  had  walked  on  ;  and,  coming  to  her  door 
in  the  twilight,  he  had  thought  he  would  ask  for  some  supper.  But 
there  was  no  one  in.  Miss  Higgins  had  gone  "apiece"  with  her  visitors, 
leaving  the  tea-table  standing  there,  laden  with  good  things.  He  had 
helped  himself  generously,  and  then,  as  he  heard  her  step  suddenly 
outside,  guilt,  which  makes  cowards  of  us  all,  drove  him  into  the  bed- 
room, and,  as  the  step  came  nearer  and  nearer,  under  the  bed.  His 


MISS  HIG GINS'  MAN.  321 

unusual  fatigue  had  overpowered  him,  and  he  had  fallen  asleep,  and 
was  awakened  only  by  her  scream  as  she  discovered  him. 

Miss   Higgins  had  found  the  man  she  had  been  looking  for  for 
thirty  years.     But  now  the  question  arose,  What  was  she  to  do  with 

him  ?     As  he  had  no  designs  upon  her  property 
or  her  life,  she  could  not  lecture  him  therefor. 
And,   as   his   courage    arose,  he    displayed   a 
pretty,  a  very  pretty,  face,  surmounted  by  a 
mass  of  white  curls,  in  which  shone  two  hen's 
feathers.     Miss  Higgins  clung  to  feather  beds, 
as  her    mother    before    her 
had  done,  and  she  was  very 
neat ;    but     where     is     the 
feather-bed  that  will  not  oc- 
casionally shed  a  few  feath- 
ers, dry  tears,  haply  falling 
over    memories    of    former 
flights. 

Miss  Higgins'  good  sense,  backed 
by  her  good  heart,  taught  her  that  what 
her  man  needed  now  was  a  good  supper 
and  bed.  But  in  the  morning  the 
question  again  vexed  her,  What  was 
she  to  do  with  her  man  ? 
Should  she  advertise  him? 
Again  she  questioned  him  in  the  sun-lighted  dining-room,  at  his  excel- 
lent breakfast. 

"  Whereabouts  do  your  folks  live  ?     In  what  place  ?  " 
He  looked  up  mildly  at  her,  with  a  large  piece  of  buckwheat  cake 
and  syrup  midway  between  his  plate   and   mouth,  and  answered  obe- 
diently : 

21 


HE   HELPED  HIMSELF   GENEROUSLY. 


322  MISS  BIGGINS'  MAN. 

"Our  folks's  house." 

«  Who  is  your  folks  ? " 

"  Father." 

Tlie  allies  were  called  in.  The  stiffly-starched  inquest  sat  on  Miss- 
Higgins'  man,  the  additional  result  of  their  cross-questioning  being 
that  there  was  every  evidence  that  the  father  of  Miss  Higgins'  man 
belonged  to  that  corrupt  and  shameless  sect — widowers! 

Miss  Higgins  trembled. 

"  Had  she  not  better  dispose  of  her  man  at  once  ?  Was  it  not,  in 
a  way,  encouraging  widowers  in  their  nefarious  doings,  to  harbor 
these  small  men?" 

She  asked  these  questions  with  some  relenting  of  heart,  for  already 
had  the  childish  charms  of  her  man  won  upon  her ;  and  it  was  with 
great  relief  that  she  heard  the  decision  of  Aurelia,  the  most  radical 
of  the  allies. 

"  No,  keep  him  here.  Such  a  chance  was  seldom  vouchsafed  to  the 
allies  to  teach  one  of  these  men  —  widowers  —  a  lesson  they  would  not 
soon  forget.  Punish  that  wretch,  that  unnatural  widower,  by  saying 
nothing  about  the  child.  Let  him  think  he  was  lost.  Let  him  hunt 
him  up  the  best  way  he  can." 

The  youngest  Miss  Jones  —  she  was  only  forty,  and  naturally  timid 
and  apprehensive  —  suggested  that  "it  would  be  just  like  one  of  these 
men  to  come  right  here  to  Miss  Higgins'  after  him.  There  wasn't  any- 
thing that  they  hadn't  the  face  to  do.  It  would  be  jest  like  one  of  'em 
to  walk  right  into  her  settin-room." 

Here  Miss  Higgins  remarked,  with  spirit : 

"  I  would  like  to  see  him  walk  into  my  house.  He  wouldn't  stir 
a  step  beyond  the  hall;  and  as  for  that  stair-carpet,  I  am  going  to 
take  it  up  and  cleanse  it,  any  way." 

This  remark,  which  was  warmly  applauded,  terminated  the  con- 
ference. 


MISS  BIGGINS'  MAN.  323 

Johnny  did  not  seem  averse  to  the  arrangement.  He  was  at  the 
age  when  bodily  comfort  overshadows  the  mental.  He  appeared  to 
have  a  great  deal  of  affection  for  his  father ;  but  there  was  a  Bridget, 
at  the  very  mention  of  whose  name  he  almost  gnashed  his  teeth.  "  She 
was  awful;  she  had  shaken  him,  pinched  him,  pulled  his  hair." 

Eunice  Higgins'  warm  heart  almost  melted  within  her  at  the 
recital  of  his  sufferings. 

A  week  passed  away,  and  daily  had  Miss  Higgins'  man  gained 
upon  her  affections.  She  was  the  youngest  child  of  her  parents,  and 
had  never  known  the  delights  of  childish  society.  She  had  dwelt  so 
long  alone,  that  to  have  that  bright,  manly  little  face  opposite  hers  at 
the  breakfast  table,  looking  out  of  the  window,  hailing  her  return  from 
her  short  absences,  his  merry,  innocent  prattle  and  ringing  laugh,  was 
all  more  agreeable  to  her  than  she  would  have  been  willing  to 
acknowledge. 

She  grew  lenient  to  the  boyish  noise  of  her  man  — for  the  best  of 
boys  have  unregulated  moments — looked  benignantly  upon  him  as  he 
capered  in  the  garden  paths,  in  startling  proximity  to  her  marrowfats 
and  cluster  cucumbers.  She  ravelled  out  a  long  stocking,  and  out  of 
one  of  her  second-best  Morocco  shoes  made  a  ball  for  him ;  and  when 
he  lost  it  in  her  best  meadow,  she  herself  boldly  breasted  the  clover 
waves,  side  by  side  with  him,  in  pursuit  of  it. 

So  that  beautiful  week  passed  away ;  and  one  morning  Eunice  Hig- 
gins was  called  from  her  snowy  dairy-room  by  a  ring  at  her  front 
door. 

Opening  it,  she  confronted  a  pleasant-looking  man  of  about  her 
own  age.  Woman's  unerring  intuition  said  to  her,  "  This  is  he."  Here 
was  the  opportunity  to  wither  him  with  her  glances.  But  how  could 
she  when  he  looked  so  much  like  Johnny  — just  such  a  pleasant 
face.  Eunice  did  not  wither  him.  "I  have  been  informed,  madam, 
that  there  has  been  a  boy,  a  runaway  boy  here.  Is  it  so?" 


324 


MISS  HIQ&HT&  MAN. 


Instead   of  the   prussic   acid   and  vinegar   that  she  had  designed 
to  have  in  her  tone,  the  likeness   to   her   man   so   softened   her  voice 
that  it  was  only 
pleasantly  acidu- 
lous, like  a  ripe 
lemon,    as     she 
replied,      "  Yes, 
sir,  it  is." 

"  Is  he  here 
now?" 

"  Yes,  sir, 
he  is." 

His  anxious 
eyes  so  brighten- 
ed at  this,  that 
she  entirely  for- 
got her  carpets 
and  her  enmity, 
and  actually  in- 
vited him  in. 

No  sooner  was 
he    seated    than 


AFTER  THE   RUNAWAY. 


Johnny    ran    in 
with  eager  eyes. 

"  0  papa !  papa !  " 

He  threw  his  arms  round  his  father's  neck,  and  kissed  his  bearded 
lips ;  and  then,  in  his  delight,  he  turned  and  threw  his  arms  round 
Eunice  Higgins'  neck  and  kissed  her  with  the  same  pair  of  lips ;  and 
still  Miss  Higgins  could  say,  in  the  dying  words  of  the  great  states- 
man:  "I  still  live!" 

Mr.  Dale  was  a  man  of  means  and  leisure.     He  thought  the  air  of 


MISS  BIGGINS'  NAN.  325 

the  little  town  exceedingly  good.  He  obtained  board  for  the  summer 
for  himself  and  son  at  the  little  hotel.  But  in  all  Chesterville  no  air 
was  so  pure  and  salubrious,  he  thought,  as  the  air  of  Miss  Eunice  Hig- 
gins'  parlor.  Consequently,  he  sought  that  healthful  retreat  often, 
Johnny  going  before  like  an  olive-branch. 

Day  after  day  did  Mr.  Dale  tread  over  the  immaculate  purity  of 
her  carpets,  and  they  were  not  taken  up  and  "  cleansed."  Hour  after 
hour  did  he  sit  upon  her  parlor  sofa,  and  it  was  not  purified  with  soap, 
suds  or  benzine. 

And  at  last,  one  peaceful  twilight,  it  was  on  the  fourteenth  day  of 
September,  at  the  close  of  a  long  conversation  —  both  of  the  parties 
being,  at  the  time,  of  sound  mind — Johnny's  father  kissed  Miss  Hig- 
irins  upon  her  cheek. 

When  I  say  that  she  did  not  immediately  burn  out  the  spot  with 
lunar  caustic,  you  may  be  prepared  for  the  result. 

The  next  week  Eunice  Dale,  late  Higgins,  was  ignominiously 
expelled  from  the  allied  forces  of  Chesterville,  her  name  washed  out  in 
hot  streams  of  Hyson  and  still  more  burning  indignation.  But  Eunice 
made  a  happy  home  for  her  man  and  his  father,  and,  rejoicing  in  their 
content  and  her  own,  she  wisted  not  of  the  "  allied  "  proceedings.  And 
thus  endeth  the  story  of  Miss  HIGGINS'  MAN. 


KATE'S  WEDDING  GIFT. 


ATE  WILLIS  sat  on  the  low,  brown  door- 
step of  the  old  farm-house.  She  had  evi- 
dently been  out  in  the  orchard,  for  her  straw 
hat  lay  by  her  side,  and  her  lap  was  full  of  apple- 
blossoms.  She  had  picked,  too,  some  shining  grass- 
blades,  and  some  clusters  of  emerald-green  rose-leaves  from  the  bush 
beside  her,  and  was  weaving  them  with  her  rosy  apple-blossoms  into  two 
pretty  bouquets.  She  was  not  looking  very  intently  at  her  work,  how- 
ever. Her  beautiful  brown  eyes  were  bent  away  over  the  long  meadow 
and  beyond  the  stream,  with  its  willow-fringed  border,  to  the  white 
walls  of  a  perfect  gem  of  a  cottage.  It  was  nearly  half  a  mile  away, 
but  she  could  see  plainly  its  bay-windows,  vine-garlanded,  its  pretty 
latticed  porticoes  and  balconies.  She  was  too  far  distant  to  see  the 
glowing  flower-beds  and  the  marble-vases  filled  with  vines,  and  ferns, 
and  blossoms ;  but  she  could  see  the  clump  of  rare  shrubbery  that  rose 
from  the  velvet  green  of  the  large  lawn  that  extended  down  to  the 
highway,  and  on  the  south  side  down  to  the  banks  of  the  stream.  On 
the  north  side  of  it,  but  belonging  to  the  grounds,  was  a  thick  grove 
of  oaks  and  maples.  And  back  of  the  house,  and  separated  from  it  b^ 

(327) 


328 


KATE'S   WEDDING   GIFT. 


a  vegetable-garden  and  fruit-trees,  she  could  see  the  gothic  roof  of  the 

carriage-house  and  other  out-houses.     It 
was  a  beautiful  place,  showing  evidences 
of   refinement    and   good   taste ;    and   I 
don't  blame  Katy   for   letting  her   eyes 
rest    upon    it    so    admiringly.      As    she 
looked,   she    seemed   to   be   dreaming   a 
dream,  not   unpleasant,  if   one   were   to 
judge  from  the   expres- 
sion of  the  sweet  face. 

But  her  reverie  was 
interrupted  by  the  en- 
trance of  good  Aunt 
Jane  into  the  sitting- 
room,  in  the  outside 
door  of  which  Kate  was 
sitting,  under  the  wood- 
bine that  had  been  train- 
ed over  the  rustic  porch. 
Aunt  Jane  had  a  long- 
seamed  stocking  in  her 
hand  nearly  completed; 
and,  having  settled  her- 
self in  her  favorite  rock- 
ing-chair, commenced 
knitting  diligently,  and 
talking  to  her  niece. 

"  Nathan  Farmer  was 
here  just  now,  Cathe- 
rine, while  you  were 
down  in  the  orchard." 


Tf  MAKES  MS  FEEL   BAD,    CATHERINE." 


KATE'S   WEDDING   GIFT.  329 

u  Yes,  I  met  him  when  I  was  coming  back." 

"  You  are  going  with  him  to  the  picnic,  next  Friday,  haint  you  ? 

"I  don't  know— I  don't  really  think  I  shall." 

"Didn't  Nathan  ask  you  to  go?" 

"  Yes." 

"Well,  I  knew  by  his  looks  he  came  on  that  errent.  Why,  under 
the  sun,  don't  you  go  ?  You  don't  want  to,  hey  ?  Now  that  haint  no 
good  reason,  Catherine.  You  act  dretful  odd  lately.  Seems  as  if  you 
don't  want  to  stir  a  step  with  Nathan,  and  there  he  has  been  payin' 
attention  to  you  for  goin'  on  six  years.  Seems  to  me  you  have  got  dret- 
ful high  notions  into  your  head.  If  I  thought  it  was  your  goin'  off  to 
Boston  to  school  that  gin  'em  to  you,  I  should  be  sorry  enough  to  think 
I  let  you  go.  It  makes  me  feel  bad,  Catherine,  to  see  you  standin'  so  in 
your  own  light.  I  promised  my  poor  sister  on  her  death-bed,  and  then  I 
promised  your  dyin'  father,  that  I  would  do  by  you  just  as  I  would  by 
my  own  child,  and  I  want  to.  And  you  know  the  old  sayin'  just  as 
well  as  I  do,  you  ought  to  make  hay  while  the  sun  shines." 

Kate  pulled  some  tall  feathery  grasses  that  grew  by  the  door-step, 
and  wove  them  with  deft  fingers  into  her  bouquets,  but  made  no  reply. 
Aunt  Jane  looked  a  minute  over  her  spectacles  at  her  pretty  niece, 
but  was  obliged  to  look  back  again  at  her  work  immediately,  for  her 
seamed  knitting-work  called  for  all  her  eye-sight.  It  did  not  fetter  her 
tongue,  however. 

"  You  are  too  putickuler,  Catherine.  You  are  most  twenty  years 
old,  and  I  want  to  see  you  a  lookin'  out  for  a  home  of  your  own.  You 
know  as  well  as  I  do  that  I  haint  got  nothin'  but  a  life  lease  of  this 
property.  If  it  was  mine,  so  I  could  leave  it  to  you,  I  shouldn't  feel  so 
about  you ;  but,  if  I  should  die  to-morrow,  I  couldn't  leave  you  nothin', 
only  the  housen  stuff  and  what  little  money  I  have  laid  up  in  the  bank  ; 
and  if  I  should  enjoy  poor  health  any  length  of  time,  I  should  have  to 
use  that  all  up,  every  cent  of  it.  A  poor  girl,  even  if  she  is  middlin' 


330  KATE'S   WEDDING   GIFT. 

good-looking,  hadn't  ought  to  be  over  and  above  putickuler.     It  stands 
her  in  hand  to  be  up  and  a  doin'." 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  go  out  and  ask   somebody  to  marry  me  ? " 

"  Now,  Catherine,  turn  it  off  into  a  joke,  just  as  you  always  do 
when  folkes  are  a  talkin'  for  your  good." 

"  Well,  what  shall  I  do,  Auntie  ?" 

"  You  know,  Catherine,  just  as  well  as  I  do,  that  Nathan  Farmer 
stands  ready.  All  he  wants  is  a  little  encouragement.  All  he  needs  is  a 
little  leadin'  on." 

"I  hate  men  that  need  a  little  leading  on." 

"  Now,  Catherine,  I  call  that  wicked  in  you,  to  say  that  you  hate 
Nathan,  such  a  likely  young  man  as  he  is  —  stiddy,  equinomical,  good- 
principled,  and  well  off.  He  is  a  young  man  that  will  get  a  good  livin'. 
He  will  make  a  splendid  pervider,  and  he  would  fairly  worship  you." 

"I  don't  want  to  be  worshiped.     It  would  be  wicked." 

"  You  know  what  I  mean,  Catherine.  You  needn't  take  me  up  so, 
anybody  that  is  talkin'  for  your  good.  I  know  by  what  Mrs.  Farmer 
told  me  yesterday,  that  Nathan  is  a  gettin'  discouraged." 

"Before  I  would  send  my  mother  round  to  complain — " 

"  Now  you  know,  Catherine,  that  Mrs.  Farmer  didn't  come  a  pur- 
pose for  that.  She  has  been  a  owin'  me  a  visit  quite  a  spell.  The  only 
wonder  to  me  is,  that  Nathan  haint  got  discouraged  before  now,  a  tryin' 
to  keep  company  with  you.  There  you  will  go  off  up  stairs,  and  leave 
him  alone  with  me  for  hours ;  and  the  last  time  you  actually  went  to 
bed ;  and  there  he  sot  here  lookin'  as  if  he  would  sink." 

"  I  wish  he  had,"  said  willful  Kate,  but  under  her  breath ;  for  she 
dearly  loved  the  good  aunt  who  was  lecturing  her  so. 

"  There  he  sot  here  till  most  ten  o'clock,  expectin'  of  you  back 
every  minute,  I  not  wantin'  to  leave  him  alone,  his  face  a  growin'  as  red 
as  blood,  and  I  feelin'  like  a  fool  settin'  up  alone  with  a  young  feller 
Sunday  night." 


KATE'S   WEDDING   GIFT,  331 

Here  Katy  broke  out  into  a  ringing  peal  of  laughter,  so  sweet,  that 
the  robin,  sitting  on  the  brown  eaves  of  the  farm-house,  broke  out  into 
a  perfect  flood  of  song,  as  if  in  answer  to  a  mate.  But,  seeing  her 
aunt's  serious  face,  Kate  dropped  her  flowers,  and  running  up  behind 
her,  she  put  her  arms  round  her  neck  and  kissed  her.  Then  she 
smoothed  back  the  still  dark  locks  under  her  dress  cap,  and  said : 

"  He  couldn't  get  a  better-looking  girl  to  sit  up  with." 

But  her  aunt  still  looked  sober  ;  while  Kate  said,  penitently : 

"  I  will  never  do  it  again,  Auntie,  never." 

"  Wall,  see  that  you  don't.  I  wouldn't  go  through  it  again  for  a 
dollar-bill." 

Here  Aunt  Jane  looked  up  at  the  clock,  and  then  adown  the  road 
leading  to  "  the  Corners." 

"  I  don't  believe  that  Hannah  is  going  to  get  back  time  enough  to 
get  supper.  She  is  gettin'  awful  shiftless  lately.  She's  had  time  to 
make  a  dozen  spools  of  thread  while  she  has  been  going  after  one.  I 
don't  know,  Catherine,  but  you  had  better  hang  on  the  tea-kettle.  It  is 
most  six  o'clock,  and  I  am  afraid  that  Mr.  Heine  will  be  here  before  we 
can  get  supper  ready,  do  the  best  we  can." 

Kate  picked  up  her  scattered  flowers,  and  put  her  bouquets  in  the 
tall  glass  vases  on  the  mantel.  Then  she  hung  on  the  tea-kettle,  and 
went  to  setting  the  table.  Aunt  Jane  moved  her  chair  toward  the  open 
door  of  the  dining-room,  and,  as  Kate  came  back  from  the  kitchen,  she 
was  ready  with  another  flow  of  language. 

"  I  know,  from  what  Mr.  Heine  told  me  last  night,  that  he  thinks 
it  would  be  a  splendid  match  for  you." 

Kate  stood  with  her  back  to  her  aunt,  smoothing  the  snowy  linen 
cloth  upon  the  table ;  and  her  aunt  couldn't  see  the  sudden  rush  of 
crimson  in  the  sweet  face  at  the  mention  of  that  name. 

"  A  middle-aged,  stiddy  man  as  lit  is,  that  has  seen  so  much  of  the 
world,  can't  help  knowin'  a  good  chance  when  he  sees  it." 


332  KATE'S   WEDDING   GIFT. 

Kate  was  placing  the  clear,  old-fashioned  china  upon  the  table 
with,  it  seemed,  more  than  her  usual  dainty  precision,  and  did  not 
reply. 

"  He  is  a  smart,  likely,  forehanded  man.  And  such  men  look  out 
for  the  best  things.  They  can  tell  when  a  girl  gets  a  good  chance  as 
well  as  anybody.  And  he  is  one  that  would  wish  you  well,  too.  He 
said  so.  He  said  that  he  should  always  be  glad  to  hear  that  you  was 
happy,  or  something  to  that  effect." 

"  He  needn't  take  the  trouble  to  wish  anything  concerning  me," 
Kate  broke  out,  impetuously. 

"  Now  I  should  be  ashamed  of  that  speech,  Catherine.  I  don't  see 
what  has  got  into  you  lately,  flyin'  out  at  your  best  friends  so.  If  you 
have  got  a  well-wisher  on  earth,  it  is  Mr.  Heine.  Haint  he  always  acted 
just  like  a  father  to  you  ever  since  he  came  here  a  boardin',  a  goin'  on 
two  years  now,  looked  out  for  you,  and  been  as  good  to  you  as  if  you 
was  his  own  child  ? " 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Kate;  for,  impulsive  and  warm-hearted,  she  could 
do  no  one  an  injustice  long.  But  what  was  it  ?  Was  it  gratitude  for 
that  fatherly  kindness  that  brought  the  tears  into  those  great  brown 
eyes  and  made  the  sweet,  sensitive  mouth  so  tremulous,  as  she  added, 
"No  one  else  was  ever  so  good  to  me — no  one." 

"  That  is  just  as  true  as  you  live  and  breathe.  I  knew  you  felt  just 
so.  I  told  Mr.  Heine  last  night  that  you  felt  toward  him  just  as  you 
would  toward  a  father.  And  well  you  may,  for  he  is  a  smart,  likely 
man  ;  and  for  all  he  is  so  rich  and  knows  so  much,  he  haint  stuck  up  a 
mite.  A  Christian  gentleman — that  is  what  the  minister  called  him, 
last  week.  And  when  he  and  his  wife  settles  down  here  he  will  be  a 
help  to  the  place." 

"  Is  he  going  to  be  married  ? "  faltered  Kate. 

"  Why,  that  was  what  Nathan's  mother  was  a  tellin'  me  yesterday, 
that  they  said  up  to  the  Corners  that  Mr.  Heine  had  got  a  woman 


KATE'S   WEDDING  GIFT.  333 

picked  out  up  there  where  he  came  from ;  a  rich  widow,  I  believe  they 
said  she  was.  I  have  mistrusted  it  all  along,  as  I  told  her.  What  else 
under  the  sun  did  he  buy  that  house  for  and  fix  it  up  so  ?  I  thought, 
after  your  father  died,  and  Judge  Bacon  bought  it,  that  he  fixed  it  up  as 
nice  as  it  could  be.  But  they  say  it  wasn't  nothin'  to  what  it  is  now  — 
lace  curtains,  and  velvet  carpets,  and  red  satin  sofas  and  chairs. 
Nothin'  like  it  in  these  parts.  And  the  big  south  chamber,  they  mis- 
trust, is  to  be  his  wife's  room.  They  are  fixin'  it  all  off  with  blue  velvet 
chairs  and  sofa  and  white  lace  curtains.  And  such  sights  of  pictures 
all  over  the  house,  and  the  library  full  of  books.  They  have  got  it 
most  done,  so  Mr.  Heine  told  me  last  night."  Aunt  Jane  glanced  out 
of  the  window,  as  she  spoke,  at  the  beautiful  cottage  that  Kate  had 
looked  upon  with  such  interest  that  afternoon.  "  Your  father  set  out 
lots  of  them  trees.  He  was  a  tasty  man.  Ministers  generally  be.  I 
was  a  tellin'  Mr.  Heine,  before  he  bought  the  place,  how  much  you 
thought  of  it,  because  your  father  had  lived  there  once  — " 

Here  Aunt  Jane  became  aware  that  she  was  alone ;  and,  although 
it  was  a  trial  for  her  to  do  so,  she  wisely  stopped  talking,  contenting 
herself  with  wondering  anew  "  why  Hannah  didn't  come,"  and  preparing 
in  her  mind  a  course  of  mild,  but  lengthy,  lectures,  for  the  free  benefit 
of  that  delinquent  damsel  when  she  did  arrive. 

Yes,  Kate  had  gone  up  to  her  own  room.  Fatherly  kindness  !  So 
that  was  the  meaning  of  all  his  interest  in  her,  his  goodness,  his  tender 
thoughtf ulness  toward  her.  Why  had  she  never  realized  it  before  ?  He 
thought  of  her  only  as  a  child,  and  she  had  been  living  in  a  fool's  para- 
dise all  these  long,  bright,  happy  months. 

Walter  Heine  was  the  chief  engineer  of  the  new  railroad  that  passed 
through  Wayland.  He  had  come  there  the  summer  before  ;  but,  half  a 
mile  from  there,  there  was  rather  a  difficult  place  in  the  road ;  and 
what  with  that  and  trouble  with  contractors,  he  had  not  found  it 
easy  to  push  his  work  very  rapidly.  The  delay  had  not  seemed  to  make 


334  KATE'S   WEDDING   GIFT. 

him  unhappy.  In  fact,  his  friends  said  they  had  never  seen  Heine  as 
cheerful  as  he  had  been  for  this  past  year.  Now  they  were  working  five 
miles  away;  but  still  he  boarded  at  Aunt  Jane's  farm-house,  riding  out 
in  the  morning,  on  his  black  horse  Selim,  and  back  again  at  night.  He 
said  the  road  was  so  nearly  completed  that  it  would  not  be  worth  while 
to  obtain  another  boarding-place.  And  then  he  wanted  to  be  near,  to 
superintend  the  fitting-up  of  the  cottage.  He  had  been  heard  to  say 
that  he  was  tired  of  beating  round  the  world,  and  wanted  a  home  of  his 
own.  All  Wayland  was  delighted  at  the  idea  of  his  settling  among 
them ;  for  no  one  who  knew  him  could  fail  to  recognize  him  for  what  he 
truly  was,  "  a  Christian  gentleman." 

And  Katy  !  To  Katy  he  had  brought  a  new  world — a  magic,  beau- 
tiful world  of  beauty  and  culture.  And  he  had  been  so  good  to  her,  so 
kind,  so  thoughtful.  She  looked  around  her  little  room.  Everywhere 
could  she  see  evidences  of  his  kindness.  There,  in  its  little  Parian 
vase,  was  the  bouquet  of  ferns  and  wild-flowers,  so  exquisitely  arranged, 
that  he  had  brought  her  yesterday  from  the  survey.  There  was  the 
shelf  of  books,  daintily  bound,  every  one  of  which  he  had  given  her. 
And  there,  on  the  table  before  her,  lay  his  last  gift,  the  exquisite  prose 
poems  of  Jean*- Paul,  in  German.  They  had  been  reading  it  together 
only  last  week,  he  helping  to  correct  her  rather  imperfect  pronunciation. 
She  was  an  ardent  little  student.  Her  pretty  head  had  other  treasures 
beside  its  wealth  of  nut-brown  curls ;  and,  surely,  he  was  the  most 
patient  of  teachers.  There,  on  the  wall,  was  a  sketch,  in  firm,  bold 
lines,  of  a  particularly  favorite  view  of  hers.  Yes,  she  felt  in  her  heart 
that  no  father  could  be  kinder  to  a  beloved  child  than  he  had  been  to 
her.  But  what  was  there  in  that  thought  so  bitter-sweet,  so  sad  ? 
Faster  and  faster  fell  her  tears.  She  had  never  thought  of  it.  Their 
tastes  were  so  alike,  they  had  seemed  so  near  to  each  other,  that  she 
never  thought  of  his  being  older  than  herself.  Yes,  her  aunt  was  right. 
She  had  of  late  refused  to  go  to  the  rustic  neighborhood  gatherings, 


KATE'S   WEDDING   GIFT.  335 

and  in  her  heart  she  knew  it  was  because  Mr.  Heine  never  cared  to  go. 
Had  he  divined  her  foolishness,  her  presumption  ?  Her  cheeks  burned 
hotly  at  the  thought.  She  would  be  on  her  guard  in  the  future. 

She  was  bathing  her  eyes,  her  flushed  cheeks,  when  she  heard  the 
tread  of  Selim  coming  down  the  road.  She  looked  out  of  the  window, 
instinctively,  following  the  habit  of  months ;  for  it  had  been  her  delight 
to  see  him,  like  Sir  Lancelot,  come  riding  by,  in  the  u  blue,  unclouded 
weather."  He  usually  sat  his  horse  like  a  king,  as  he  really  was,  of 
nature's  own  crowning.  But  to-night  he  seemed  weary,  listless,  and  so 
intent  in  thought,  that  black  Selim  stopped  at  the  gate  before  his  master 
seemed  to  be  aware  where  he  really  was.  Following  blind  habit  also, 
Mr.  Heine's  first  glance  was  up  to  the  window  of  Kate's  room.  He  saw 
her,  and  lifted  his  hat  with  a  grave  bow,  but  the  smile  with  which  he 
had  always  greeted  her  had  vanished.  Again,  the  hot  blood  burned 
Kate's  fair  cheeks.  He  had  discovered  her  foolishness,  and  was  teach- 
ing her  a  lesson.  But  he  need  not  be  afraid.  Cold  and  distant  was 
Kate  to  him  at  supper.  Coolly,  studiously  polite  was  Mr.  Heine  to  her. 
Aunt  Jane  was  neither  sensitive  nor  impressible ;  but,  as  a  good-natured 
blossoming  peach-tree,  in  the  spring  of  the  year,  without  being  able  to 
philosophize  upon  it,  may  haply  feel  the  breezes  that  blow  from  snow- 
drifts in  mountain  hollows,  so  Aunt  Jane  was  blindly  conscious  of  a 
change  in  the  atmosphere. 

After  supper,  Mr.  Heine  went  out  and  sat  on  the  southern  porch,  in 
the  lovely  sunset  light  that  rippled  down  through  the  clusters  of  wood- 
bine leaves.  This  had  been  his  favorite  time  for  reading  with  Kate,  or 
to  her,  talking  with  her,  hearing  her  play  and  sing.  But  Kate,  just 
within  the  open  door  with  her  sewing,  did  not  seem  inclined  for  reading, 
conversation,  or  music.  And  Mr.  Heine  did  not  call  her  to  his  side,  as 
he  had  been  wont  to  do,  with,  "  Here,  Kate,  come  and  see  this.  Isn't 
this  beautiful  ?"  holding  the  open  book  so  she  could  look  over  it  with 
him  ;  or,  "  Come,  Katy,  and  sing  Annie  Laurie  for  me."  He  had  taken 


336 


KATE'S   WEDDING   GIFT. 


a  newspaper  from  the  little  stand  as  he  passed  it,  but  it  lay  unopened 
upon  "his  knee,  and  there  was  a  very  grave,  preoccupied  look  in  his  face. 
He  was  a  very  handsome  man,  although  there  were  a  few  silver 
threads  visible  in  the  thick  brown  hair  that  was 
thrown  carelessly  back  from  his  broad  white  fore- 
head, and  in  the  sweeping  beard  and  moustache 
of  the  same  color.     It  was  a  strong,  earnest  face, 
the  face  of  one  who  had  lived  much  in  his  thirty- 
nine  years,  thought  much,  perhaps  suffered  much  ; 
for  there  was  a  strength  and  a  patience  in  his  face 


NATHAN'S  APPROACH. 


that  is  never  learned  save  in  that   divine   school   of   suffering,  where 
God  is  the  teacher. 

Sitting  there   in   the   twilight   shadows,   Mr.    Heine   saw   Nathan 
Farmer  coming  up  the  garden-path.     He  greeted  the  good-looking  but 


KATE'S   WEDDING   GIFT.  337 

bashful  youth  with  his  usual  kindly  courtesy,  but  he  clid  not  seem 
inclined  to  make  any  conversation  with  him.  But  as  Nathan  passed 
into  the  sitting-room,  Kate  fully  made  up  for  Mr.  Heine's  silence.  She 
had  never  been  so  cordial  to  him ;  and  poor  overjoyed,  surprised  Nathan 
was  in  the  seventh  heaven. 

His  being  there  again  that  night  was  a  triumph  of  his  mother's 
diplomacy  over  his  bashful  reluctance ;  for  that  good  woman  could  not 
lightly  lose  the  hope  of  calling  sweet  Kate  Willis  her  daughter.  She 
had,  as  she  had  often  remarked  to  her  bosom  friends,  "  picked  her  out 
for  Nathan."  And  as  she  was  rather  a  strong-minded  woman,  who 
usually  accomplished  any  plans  she  undertook,  she  was  not  inclined  to 
relinquish  this. 

Nathan  had  always  admired  Kate  excessively;  and  had  he  not,  he 
was  of  that  mild  and  amiable  nature  that  he  would  have  wedded  any 
respectable  young  lady  that  his  mother  saw  fit  to  select  for  him.  But 
Kate  had  wearied  the  good  youth.  She  had  seemed  like  a  rare,  beauti- 
ful bird,  flying  so  far  above  his  head  that  he  was  often  in  despair.  Cor- 
dial and  kind  was  Kate  to  him,  for  they  had  been  like  brother  and  sister 
in  their  childhood,  and  she  did  full  justice  to  Nathan's  solid  goodness  of 
heart.  She  really  liked  him  very  much,  as  long  as  he  walked  undevi- 
atingly  the  straight  and  narrow  path  of  friendship.  But  whenever, 
bewitched  by  her  beauty  and  sisterly  friendliness,  he  ventured  to  mean- 
der one  bashful  step  into  love's  pathway,  she  was  snow,  ice.  So,  goaded 
on  by  his  mother,  and  attracted,  and  repelled,  and  tormented  by  Kate, 
this  excellent  youth  often  thought  that  his  hair  must  turn  prematurely 
white  as  wool.  It  was  but  very  little  removed  from  that  color  now. 
Grief  and  anxiety  would  have  had  but  little  change  to  effect.  But  it  is 
only  justice  to  Nathan  to  say,  that  he  was  to  be  pitied. 

He  had  gone  home  that  afternoon  much  depressed,  and,  in  answer 
to  his  mother's  anxious  inquiries,  he  said  that  "  Kate  didn't  say  right 
out  that  she  wouldn't  go,  but  she  acted  dreadful  offish.  I  am  a 


338  KATE'S    WEDDING   GIFT. 

good  mind  to  ask  Matilda  White  for  her  company  ;  I  have  as  good  a 
mind  to  as  I  have  to  eat."  But  his  mother  assured  him  that  Kate  only 
needed  urging ;  all  girls  acted  so.  She  energetically  recited  to  him  that 
couplet  so  inspiring  to  the  manly  mind,  "  Faint  heart  never  won  fair 
lady."  She  brightened  up  the  armor  of  his  courage  anew.  She  finally 
equipped  him  with  an  errand  to  Aunt  Jane  —  she  wanted  to  borrow  her 
swifts. 

Aunt  Jane  bustled  out  to  get  them,  willing  to  give  her  favorite 
ample  opportunity.  Mr.  Heine  heard  Nathan  ask  Kate  "hadn't  you 
better  make  up  your  mind  to  go  to  the  picnic?"  heard  her  ready  assent, 
and  then  he  took  his  hat  and  walked  down  to  "  the  Corners "  to  the 
post-office.  On  his  return  he  met  Nathan  walking  homeward  in  the 
bright  moonlight,  happy-faced,  stepping  lightly,  bearing  Aunt  Jane's 
swifts  like  a  palm  of  victory. 

Kate  went  to  the  picnic,  and  the  next  Sunday  evening  she  did  not 
leave  Aunt  Jane  to  entertain  Nathan.  Poor  Katy!  She  was  doing 
what  many  a  woman  has  done,  and  will  do  again — she  was  on  the  eve 
of  doing  herself  an  irremediable  injury,  to  falsely  convince  one  man  of 
her  indifference. 

Four  weeks  passed  away.  One  afternoon  Mr.  Heine,  who  had  been 
to  the  village  all  day,  as  they  arose  from  the  tea-table,  announced  to 
Aunt  Jane,  that  he  was  to  leave  Wayland  the  next  day. 

"  Leave  Wayland  ? "  asked  Aunt  Jane,  in  open-mouthed  astonish- 
ment. 

"  Yes,  the  road  was  completed  now,  and  he  had  a  very  advanta- 
geous offer  from  Germany,  to  take  charge  of  a  new  line  of  railroad 
there.  If  he  accepted  it,  as  he  thought  he  should,  he  must  start  for 
New  York  to-morrow  to  catch  the  next  steamer.  They  wanted  him  to 
come  at  once.  At  all  events,  he  should  leave  Wayland  in  the  morning." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  your  new  house?"  cried  Aunt 
Jane. 


KATE'S   WEDDING   GIFT.  339 

"I  have  disposed  of  it  to  a  friend.'' 

Kate,  standing  in  the  open  hall  door,  heard  every  word ;  and  now 
she  slipped  up  stairs  to  her  own  room,  and  threw  herself  face  down- 
ward upon  the  bed.  Not  weeping.  No;  but  lying  there,  silent,  motion- 
less, as  if  she  were  dead.  An  hour  passed,  and  still  she  lay  there  in 
the  same  position. 

"  Catherine  ! "  Aunt  Jane  was  calling  from  the  foot  of  the  stair- 
case. "  Catherine,  Mr.  Heine  is  going  to  walk  over  to  his  house,  and 
wants  you  to  go  with  him." 

"I  can't  go." 

She  heard  Aunt  Jane's  step  coming  up  the  stairs,  and  she  rose  and 
sat  down  by  the  table,  with  her  back  to  the  door.  The  door  opened,  and 
Aunt  Jane  put  her  head  in. 

"  For  the  land's  sake,  Catherine,  do  you  go.  You  might  take  as 
much  pains  as  that  for  him,  seein'  it  is  the  last  job  we  shall  have  to  do 
for  him.  He  has  got  his  trunk  all  packed,  and  is  goin'  to  start  the  first 
thing  in  the  morning.  I  know  your  mind  is  all  took  up  another  way ; 
but  you  ought  to  use  a  man  well,  a  man  that  has  been  just  like  a  father 
to  you.  He  will  think  dretful  strange  if  you  don't  go." 

"  I'll  go,  Aunt  Jane,"  said  she,  desperately. 

"  Wall,  so  do  ;  and  you'd  better  hurry  up,  for  he  has  got  his  hat  all 
on,  a  standin'  out  by  the  gate,  a  waitin'  for  you." 

In  a  few  minutes  a  little,  white-robed  figure,  with  her  straw  hat 
tied  down  over  her  face,  with  its  blue  ribbons,  stood  by  Mr.  Heine's  side  ; 
and  she  said  to  him  without  looking  up: 

"  I  am  ready,  Mr.  Heine." 

In  almost  perfect  silence  they  walked  down  the  pleasant  country 
road.  The  last  time  !  the  last  time  !  I  think  these  words  were  sound- 
ing all  the  time  in  Katy's  heart.  There  is  something  inexpressibly  sad 
in  doing  anything  for  the  last  time,  if  it  be  but  to  pluck  the  last  autumn 
flower.  And  Kate  knew  that  this  was  her  last  hour  with  Walter  Heine. 


340  KATE'S   WEDDING   GIFT. 

And  when  he  went  he  would  take  her  heart  with  him  wherever  he 
went,  over  whatever  broad  ocean  he  might  sail.  Poor  Katy !  She 
thought,  too,  in  the  rash  sorrow  of  her  undisciplined  heart,  that  he 
would  take  her  life — her  life  too. 

Mr.  Heine  opened  the  pretty  little  iron  gate,  and  they  passed  on 
through  the  large,  beautiful  lawn,  up  the  portico,  into  the  dwelling.  It 
was  fully  completed  now,  and  poor  little  Katy  could  not  repress  an 
exclamation  of  delight  and  wonder  at  the  exquisite  beauty  of  the 
rooms,  where  ample  wealth  and  an  artist  taste  had  made  them  simply 
perfect.  They  went  through  them  all,  Mr.  Heine  trying  to  make  some 
commonplace  remarks  concerning  them,  with  a  very  grave  face,  how- 
ever. As  they  passed  out  again  on  the  front  portico,  Mr.  Heine  laid  his 
hand  upon  Kate's  arm,  detaining  her,  as  she  was  about  to  descend  the 
steps. 

"  Sit  down  a  moment,  please.  There  is  something  I  wish  to  say 
to  you." 

Kate  sat  down,  rather  wonderingly,  upon  one  of  the  little  carved 
benches,  and  Mr.  Heine  sat  down  by  her  side. 

"I  want  to  tell  you  something — something  of  my  past  life." 

Kate  sat  silently  waiting,  and  he  went  on,  in  a  low,  quiet  voice. 

"  Katy,  long  ago,  a  beautiful  false  woman  gave  me  a  great  sorrow, 
and  for  years  I  renounced  and  shunned  the  society  of  all  the  sex  for  her 
sake.  Afterward,  after  I  thought  I  had  outgrown  all  capability  of  lov- 
ing, chance  threw  me  into  the  society  of  one  so  good  and  sweet,  that, 
before  I  was  aware,  she  had  become  dearer  to  me,  ten-fold  dearer,  than 
any  other  woman  had  ever  been.  I  loved  her  better  than  my  own  life, 
and  I  dreamed  a  foolish  dream.  I  thought  I  might  win  her  in  time  to 
care  for  me.  I  might  have  known  that  her  young  heart  would  turn  to 
another  young  heart.  How  could  I  hope  that  one  so  young  and  so  beau- 
tiful could  love  me,  save  with  a  child's  affection  ?  And  so,  one  day,  the 
waking  came,  and  I  saw  how  vain  my  dream  had  been." 


KATE'S   WEDDING   GIFT.  341 

He  paused  a  moment,  perhaps  to  steady  his  voice,  for  it  had  grown 
tremulous.  Kate  sat  silently,  with  her  face  averted  from  him,  and  a 
bird  out  in  the  grove  filled  the  interval  with  its  low,  plaintive  even- 
ing song. 

"  It  was  when  I  was  dreaming  my  foolish  dream,  Katy,  that  I 
bought  this  place.  I  bought  it,  and  fitted  it  up  for  the  woman  I  loved. 
1  saw  the  sweet  face  in  every  room  — 

Again  he  paused,  then  went  on  speaking  rapidly,  resolutely  turn- 
ing to  the  little,  still,  girlish  figure. 

"  I  want  you  to  have  it,  Katy.  The  papers  are  made  out  giving 
it  to  you.  You  will  take,  wont  you,  as  a  wedding  gift,  from  your 
old  friend?  I  am  rich,  and  it  is  but  a  trifle  to  me.  And  it  will  make 
me  happier,  away  off  there  in  Germany,  in  my  dull  business  life,  to 
know  that  you  are  making  sweet,  household  pictures  in  every  room, 
though  a  happier  man  than  I  will  be  here  to  see  them." 

"  What,  Katy,  tears !  Hush,  darling,  I  don't  blame  you.  Did  you 
think  I  did  ?  I  never  thought  of  blaming  you.  Don't  cry  so.  What 
have  I  said  to  hurt  your  little  tender  heart  so  ? " 

He  smoothed  back  the  clustering,  falling  curls  from  the  bent  fore- 
head, the  only  caress  he  had  ever  ventured  on  giving  her,  trying  to  feel, 
as  he  did  so,  as  a  father  might  who  was  parting  from  a  beloved  and 
only  child.  But  I  don't  think  he  succeeded.  I  am  afraid  the  deep,  pas- 
sionate, despairing  love  was  stronger  than  any  that  ever  filled  a 
father's  heart  upon  earth. 

"  What  is  it,  my  child,  my  darling  ?  " 

He  bent  his  tall  head  down  to  the  drooping  little  figure ;  and  even 
then  I  hardly  think  he  fully  heard  the  whispered  words,  so  very  low  and 
faint  they  were.  But  love's  ears  are  the  keenest  upon  earth,  and  there 
is  a  mystic  language  that  speaks  from  soul  to  soul,  too  fine  and  sacred 
to  be  translated  into  any  earthly  language.  I  think,  by  the  sudden  light 
that  lit  up  his  sad  blue  eyes,  that  he  understood  it.  But  I  think  he  did 


342 


KATE'S   WEDDING   GIFT. 


not  fully  realize  his  happiness  until  he  took  the  hands  from  the  blushing 
face,  and  gave  one  look  into  the  tell-tale  eyes ;  and  then  —  then  he  hid 
their  sweet  light  on  his  bosom. 

Mr.  Heine  did  not  go  to  Germany,  and  Katy  lived  in  that  beautiful 
home,  and  made  "  sweet  household  pictures  "  for  her  husband's  constant 
admiration  in  every  room.  A  dainty  little  mistress,  sitting  demurely  behind 
the  silver-service  in  the  great  dining-room,  admired  by  all  her  husband's 
grand  friends ;  a  most  appreciative  large-eyed  listener,  sitting  on  a  low 
stool  by  her  husband's  side,  in  the  cosy  library,  as  he  read  to  her,  in  the 
long  winter  evenings;  standing  in  her  snowy  muslins  and  fluttering 
blue  ribbons  at  sunset,  out  by  the  carved  pillars  of  the  portico,  amidst 
the  clustering  roses,  waiting  for  the  quick,  firm  step  that  returns  so 
lightly  to  wife  and  home ;  and,  on  the  second  year  of  their  marriage, 
making  the  sweetest  picture  of  all,  he  thought,  sitting  by  the  open  win- 
dow of  their  room,  in  the  twilight  shadows,  singing  low  songs,  with  a 
baby's  head  on  her  bosom. 

Nathan  is  still  contemplating  matrimony.  His  eyes  are  rather 
directed  toward  Matilda  White ;  but  his  mother,  not  fully  approving  of 
her,  is  said  to  be  reconnoitering  in  another  direction,  and  he  is  patiently 
waiting.  What  the  result  will  be,  of  course  I  cannot  say.  But  Nathan 
has  our  best  wishes  that  her  quest  will  terminate  successfully  and  hap- 
pily for  him. 


KITTY    ROSS. 


HE  pieced  up  every  block  of  it  with  her 
own  hands,  Malviny  did."  And  the  proud 
mother  spread  abroad  the  gorgeous  folds 
of  the  patch-work  bed-quilt  before  the  eyes 
of  the  bewildered  young  minister  like  a  tri- 
umphant banner. 

"  She  thought  at  first  she  would  have 
it. a  album  quilt;  but,  finally,  she  decided  on  a  blazing  star,  as  Malviny 
says  to  me,  '  it  looks  so  kind  o'  heavenly.'  Yon  know  stars  are  a 
bright  yellow,  and  the  sky  is  a  blue  ground-work  jest  like  this.  She 
thought  it  gave  it  a  kind  of  a  sacred  look.  She  is  dreadful  religeus, 
Malviny  is.  I  have  said  to  her  father,  many  a  time,  '  If  she  is  ever 
snatched  away  from  us,  Pa,  I  hope  he  will  be  a  religeus  man  that 
snatches  her.'  A  good  many  told  me,  when  she  was  a  little  girl,  that 
she  was  just  cut  for  a  minister's  wife,  she  was  so  equinomical  and 
industrious.  She  is  an  awful  worker;  there  is  seven  hundred  pieces 
in  this  bed-quilt ;  that  shows  some  industry,  don't  it,  Mr.  Thurston  ? " 
"  I  beg  your  pardon,  madam ;  I  am  afraid  I  didn't  quite  understand 
you !  "  His  rather  dreamy,  gray  eyes  were  looking  out  of  the  open  win- 
dow, down  the  emerald,  daisy-empearled  meadow,  stretching  away  to  the 
green  woods. 

(345) 


346 


KITTY  ROSS. 


"I  was  saying  tlicre  is  seven  hundred  pieces  of  calico  in  this  bed- 
quilt  ;  1  didn't  begrech  layin'  out  the  calico  for  her  —  not  a  bit ;  she  cut 
'em  all  out  in  one  day." 

"  Kitty  helped  her  cut  'em  out,  for  I  seen  her ;  n'  I  want  a  piece  of 
pie,  or  bread  n'  butter."  Sammy,  the  fearless,  had  entered  the  room, 

and  stood  before  his  mother,  with 
pleading  in  his  tone,  and  utter  indif- 
fere'nce  in  his  demeanor  towards  the 
visitor. 

uYes ;  Kitty  helped  her  a  sight," 
said  Mrs.  Ross,  commencing  to  fold 
up  the  bed-quilt;    and  she    added, 
severely,    "  Little   boys    should    be 
seen,   and   not 
heard." 

u  I  am  tired 
of  bein'  seen ;  I 
want  to  be  heard 
a  spell ;  n'cant  1 
have  the  pie  or 
bread  11'  butter? 
I  want  some 
strawberries  on 
it.  Haint  Kitty 
got  back  yet?  I 
seen  her  start  for 
'em  m  o  r  e '  n  a 
'nour  ago." 

"  When  Kit- 

THE    BLAZING    STAR.  ,     . 

ty  gets  a  book  in 
her  hand,  or  gets  out  doors,  there  is  no  knowin'  when  she  will  be  seen 


KITTY  ROSS. 


347 


again.  She  is  so  different  from  Malviny.  Why,  if  you  will  believe  it, 
Mr.  Thurston,  if  that  girl  should  tell  you  the  truth  to-day,  I  believe  she 
would  say  that  she  thought  a  little  bit  of  moss  out  of  the  woods  was 
prettier  than  this  blazing-star  bed-quilt." 

As  she  gave  utterance  to  this  astounding  atrocity,  on  the  part  of 
Kitty,  she  stood  by  the  table,  folding  the  article  in  question ;  and  her 
last-born,  standing  opposite  her,  gazing  at  her  keenly  from  beneath  his 
torn  straw  hat,  said  :  — 

"  Malviny's  crosser'n  a  bear,  and  Kitty  haint.  She  don't  order  a 
feller  around.  What  are  you  steppin'  on  my  foot  for,  mother  ?  " 


"Samuel 
right  out  into 
wash  your  face, 
ashamed  to 
room  where 
ny  with  such  a 
He  did  not  move, 
u  e  d ,  with  a 
glance  at  him, 
me  to  have  a 
you?"  Evident- 
for  this  question 
left  the  room  im- 


Ross,  do  you  go 
the  kitchen,  and 
I  should  be 
come  into  the 
there  is  coinpa- 
looking  face." 
and  she  contin- 
threatening 
"  Do  you  want 
reckoning  with 
ly  he  did  not, 
was  potent;  lie 
mediately.  Mrs. 


Ross  laid  the  bed-quilt  in  the  bed-room,  saying,  as  she  came  back  into 
the  room :  — 

"  Malviny  will  be  in,  in  a  few  minutes." 

Again  the  young  minister's  eyes  wandered  out  of  the  open  window. 

"  Isn't  that  your  youngest  daughter  coming  through  the  meadow  ': " 

"La,  no!  She  haint  my  daughter;  that  is  Kitty  Ross,  my  hus- 
band's brother's  girl.  I  took  her  though  when  she  was  an  infant  babe ; 
brought  her  up  on  a  bottle,  and  done  for  her  as  if  she  was  my  own." 


348  KITTY  ROSS. 

"  I  have  noticed  her  face  in  church,"  said  he. 

He  did  not  say  that  her  face  in  the  family-pew  reminded  him  of  a 
mountain  daisy,  in  a  bed  of  hollyhocks.  Neither  did  he  find  it  necessary 
to  tell  what  an  inspiration  she  had  been  to  him ;  that  when  some  noble 
truth  came  warm  from  his  own  heart,  the  sudden  light  that  would  spring 
up  in  those  shy,  brown  eyes,  had  shown  him,  that,  though  strangers, 
they  were  near  kindred.  And,  if  the  whole  two  hundred  of  his  congre- 
gation had  been  absent,  and  those  appreciative  eyes  present,  he  would 
think  he  had  a  full  house.  These  thoughts,  which  he  did  not  speak, 
were  still  in  his  mind,  when  two  doors  opened  simultaneously,  and 
Malviny  and  Kitty  entered.  Malviny  had,  in  a  few  moments,  attired 
herself  in  her  best,  to  do  honor  to  the  young  minister,  and  she  sailed  in 
through  the  hall-door,  just  as 'Kitty  entered  through  the  kitchen-door, 
into  the  sitting-room,  with  her  basket  of  berries.  She  had  on  a  print- 
dress  and  a  straw  hat ;  but  she  had  found  a  great  bunch  of  wild-flowers 
and  grasses,  and  her  cheeks  were  as  rosy  as  her  strawberries,  and  her 
eyes  fell  shyly  as  they  met  the  earnest  look  of  admiration  the  young 
minister  bent  upon  her,  as  he  took  the  hand  that  was  free  in  his  own. 

"  Malviny,  you  go  right  into  the  parlor  with  Mr.  Thurston.  I  have 
been  waiting  for  you  to  come  down ;  and  Kitty,  you  go  out  into  the 
kitchen-porch,  and  look  over  your  strawberries.  And  Malviny,"  the 
mother  called  after  them,  as  they  passed  through  the  hall,  "  you  show 
the  minister  your  feather-flowers,  and  the  hair-wreath  you  have  just 
done." 

The  young  minister,  as  in  duty  bound,  respectfully  examined  the 
flowers,  in  which  the  hair  of  the  living  and  the  dead  of  the  Ross  family 
blossomed  again.  The  feathers,  haply  fallen  from  defiant  ganders,  were 
also  faithfully  commented  upon,  and  then  his  attention  seemed  to  be 
wandering. 

"  I  noticed  you  had  some  beautiful  flowers  in  your  kitchen  garden, 
as  I  passed  this  afternoon." 


KITTY  ROSS.  349 

"  Oh !  they  are  some  of  Kitty's.  Father  gave  her  a  little  piece  of 
the  garden  ;  he  don't  make  any  difference  between  her  and  me,  though 
she  is  only  a  girl  we  took,  and  is  dependent  on  us  for  a  home." 

The  color  came  into  Mr.  Thurston's  face,  but  any  remark  he  might 
ha \v  wished  to  make  was  cut  short  by  the  entrance  of  Sammy,  the  ter- 
rible. He  came  in  with  an  air  of  boldness,  befitting  Robert  Kidd,  "  as 
he  sailed,  as  he  sailed."  But  a  close  observer  could  see  that  he  was 
inwardly  ill  at  ease,  as  if  he  expected  his  sojourn  would  be  short  in  that 
land  of  promise.  His  presentiment  was  doomed  to  quick  fulfillment,  for 
scarcely  had  his  little  tow-breeches  touched  the  chair-bottom,  when  Mal- 
viny  asked  him,  with  much  sweetness :  — 

"  Sammy,  won't  you  go  out  and  get  me  a  drink  of  water  ?  " 

Sammy  had  no  fear  of  man  before  his  eyes,  and  he  arose  in  his 
vrath. 

"  Yes;  gim'me  a  drink  of  water!  That  is  always  the  way!  Gim'- 
me  a  drink  of  water !  an'  then,  when  I  go  out  after  it,  mother  won't 
lem'me  come  in  again !  When  a  feller  is  here,  it  makes  you  awful  dry 
to  have  me  jest  step  into  the  room." 

"  I  shall  tell  mother  of  you,  Samuel,"  said  Malviny,  with  a  red 
face. 

"  Yes !  there  it  is  again !  gem'me  into  more  trouble ! " 

"She  will,  have  a  reckoning  with  you,  Samuel." 

As  we  have  said,  Sammy  had  no  fear  of  man ;  but,  before  a  "  reck- 
oning," even  his  iron  courage  faltered.  Whatever  this  "  reckoning " 
might  be,  he  had  evidently  learned,  from  past  experience,  that  the  loss 
was  sure  to  be  upon  his  side  of  the  account,  and  at  the  mention  of  it  he 
departed,  pausing,  however,  at  the  door  to  make  up  a  face  at  his  sister. 

"  I  am  so  ashamed  of  him,  Mr.  Thurston  ;  but  we  all  humor  him 
most  to  death,  and  it  makes  him  act  awful  bad." 

"  Oh !  don't  mention  it,"  said  the  young  minister,  biting  his  lip. 
"  But  we  were  just  speaking  of  your  flowers,  Miss  Ross.  I  think  I 


350  KITTY  ROSS. 

noticed  a  kind  of  rose  that  was  exceedingly  beautiful  and  rare  ;  suppose 
we  go  out  and  see  them." 

Miss  Ross  was  delighted,  of  course,  to  walk  even  so  short  a  distance 
with  the  handsome  young  minister ;  and  as  she  told  her  mother  after- 
ward, "  as  they  walked  through  the  front  yard,  the  faces  of  the  three 
Talmadge  girls  were  so  flattened  against  the  window-panes  opposite  that 
their  noses  looked  like  the  pictures  of  the  Hottentots  in  her  old  Geog- 
raphy." And  Malviny  further  remarked  to  her  mother  that  "  it  is 
shameful  the  way  those  Talmadge  girls  are  after  the  minister,  and  they 
Methodist  girls,  too,  and  he  an  Episcopal." 

"  Yes,"  cried  Mrs.  Ross,  "  I  don't  see  how  folks  can  make  up  their 
faces  to  act  so  bold ;  but  it  does  seem  as  if  some  folks  haint  got  no 
pride." 

Excepting  a  kitten,  delivered,  in  its  weakness,  into  the  hands  of  chil- 
dren, for  them  to  use  at  pleasure,  I  think  there  are  few  objects  more 
truly  deserving  of  sympathy,  than  a  young  unmarried  minister.  Then, 
if  ever,  must  he  be  wary,  circumspect ;  he  must  look  neither  to  the 
right  hand  nor  the  left.  His  persecution  is  not  like  the  old  martyrs, 
but  he  will  be  stoned  in  the  synagogue  by  soft  glances,  and  honeyed 
smiles,  and  endearing  words.  He  will  be  sawn  asunder  in  the  market- 
place, and  in  the  seclusion  of  his  own  study,  by  curious  old  ladies,  who 
will  gather  his  past  history  and  settle  his  future.  He  will  not  wander  in 
sheep-skin  and  goat-skin,  but  in  slippers  manifold,  embroidered  with 
every  known  device. 

If  the  young  minister  be  cowardly,  he  is  often  constrained  to  gird 
up  his  loins  and  flee  to  the  mountains.  But  the  Rev.  Floyd  Thurston 
was  not  cowardly.  From  his  earliest  youth  he  was  noted  for  his  quiet 
self-possession.  He  always  knew  just  what  he  wanted,  and  he  usually 
obtained  it  in  a  straightforward  manner.  Like  Sir  Galahad, 

"  His  strength  was  as  the  strength  of  ten, 
Because  his  heart  was  pure." 


KITTY  ROSS.  351 

To  do  him  justice,  he  was  a  very  pure-minded  young  man,  earnestly 
devoted  to  his  sacred  calling ;  and  although  he  was  talented,  rich,  and 
handsome,  he  was  not  vain ;  consequently,  he  passed  unnoticed  many 
things  that  would  have  affected  a  vainer  man.  I  think  Malviny  had  for- 
gotten that  the  old  kitchen-porch  opened  directly  upon  the  garden,  and 
was  not  very  remote  from  it.  But  I  think  the  young  minister  had  not, 
for  his  first  glance  was  in  that  direction,  and  there  sat  Kitty  hulling  her 
strawberries  —  and  Kitty  was  laughing. 

Down  in  the  meadow  that  afternoon,  Kitty  had  not  been  very  gay, 
though  she  loved  every  flower  and  bird,  and  every  little  white  wanderer 
of  a  cloud  as  well.  When  her  cousin  was  imperious,  and  her  aunt  crossr 
and  she  felt  herself  to  be  more  lonely  than  ever,  she  loved  to  get  away  from 
it  all  out  into  the  woods,  into  the  fields  ;  and  dear  Nature,  gentlest  of  all 
consolers,  how  tenderly  did  she  comfort  this  sweet  little  soul !  It  seemed 
as  if  it  were  such  a  large  world  after  all,  and  the  good  God  had  a  place  in. 
it  for  everything.  Even  the  least  little  mite  of  a  grass-spray  looked  up 
hopeful,  and  seemed  to  feel  at  ease ;  and  the  great,  calm  heavens  over- 
head never  twitted  it  of  being  so  small  and  worthless  after  it  had  done 
so  much  for  it,  in  the  way  of  dew  and  sunshine. 

Sometimes,  I  am  afraid,  little  Kitty  was  wicked  enough  to  wish  in 
her  heart  that  the  "bottle  she  had  been  brought  up  on,"  and  which  her 
aunt  so  often  set  before  her,  had  been  broken,  and  her  infant  life  with 
it.  But  this  afternoon  she  was  too  busy  to  give  way  to  sorrowful  memo- 
ries or  forebodings,  for  her  aunt  had  ordered  her  to  pick  five  quarts. 

She  was  willing  to  work  faithfully -for  her  aunt.  The  neighbors 
said,  "  she  worked  like  a  slave,  and  it  was  a  shame ! "  But  I  don't 
think  Kitty  cherished  any  revengeful  thoughts ;  she  wanted  to  do  her 
duty,  and  if  it  was  a  loveless  duty,  it  was  only  the  harder  for  her.  She 
worked  diligently,  and  had  gotten  her  basket  nearly  full,  when  down  in 
a  corner  of  the  rail-fence,  in  a  clump  of  alders,  she  found  a  bird's-nest, 
full  of  little  ones  almost  ready  to  fly  away. 


352 


KITTY   ROSS. 


"  Oh,  you  darlings  !  "  she  murmured,  looking  down  into  it  with  her 
soft,  wistful  eyes.     "  You  happy  darlings !  that  have  got  some  one  to 
love  you !     Old  bird,  you  needn't  stand  up  there  so  anxious.     Do  you 
think  I  would  harm  a 
feather  on   their   little 
heads!" 

Then  she  wonder- 
ed  if    any   one   would 
ever    care    for    her   as 
that  old  constant  bird 
did  for  her  little  ones.     ^^^-  « /  v 
She    meant    really    to 
care  for  her   as   Clive 
Newcome  did  for  Ethel. 
She  had  just  been  read- 
ing "  The  Newcomes." 
She   would    asked    for 
nothing  else  on  earth, 
she     thought,     if    she 
could    only    be    loved 
like   that.     She   didn't 
care  if  it  never  amount- 
ed to  anything.     Little 
Kitty  did  not  think  of 
a  settlement  and  an  es- 
tablishment, but   all   her   life   her   poor   heart,  her 
hungry,  loving   heart,   had  been  asking  for   bread, 
and  got  only  a  stone.     How  beautiful  it  would  be, 
altogether   too  blessed  for  her,   she   thought,  as    she   went   up  to   the 
house    through    the    blossomy    clover,   to    have   a    pair   of    dark-gray  , 
eyes  look  upon  her  with  loving  tenderness.     Somehow,  lately,  all  her 


THE   HAPPY   FAMILY 


KITTY  ROSS.  353 

air-castles  —  and  she  was  a  great  builder  of  them  —  had  raised  them- 
selves up  in  a  Gothic  form,  with  a  stained  window  for  a  background ; 
and  all  her  heroes  had  looked  down  upon  her  with  gray,  earnest  eyes ; 
they  all  had  handsome,  dreamy  faces,  and  their  hands  were  spread 
abroad  in  benediction.  Strange  attitude  for  bold  crusaders  and  knights 
in  armor  —  but  so  it  was. 

When  her  aunt  had  dismissed  her  so  summarily  from  the  room, 
little  Kitty  was  not  unhappy ;  on  the  contrary,  I  think  she  was  never  so 
happy  in  all  her  life  —  for  had  she  not  met  just  such  a  look  as  she 
dreamed  of  down  in  the  meadow  ?  The  memory  of  that  was  enough  to 
make  her  bliss ;  and  the  berries  she  was  hulling  so  busily,  might  have 
re-ripened  beneath  the  tender  sunlight  in  the  brown  eyes.  But  when 
the  young  minister  looked  at  her,  we  said  Kitty  was  laughing,  and  it 
chanced  in  this  wise :  Sammy,  rudely  driven  from  the  parlor,  had,  as  he 
always  did,  taken  his  wounded  spirit  to  Kitty ;  and  such  solace  did  he 
find  in  her  society,  that  he  had  forgotten  his  grief.  Yet,  still  smarting 
'under  the  sense  of  the  injury  his  sister  had  done  him,  he  was  in  the 
corner  of  the  porch,  giving  a  theatrical  representation  of  a  scene  to 
come  off,  when  he  was  a  wealthy  householder,  and  Malviny  a  beggar  at 
his  gate.  Kitty  knew  she  ought  not  to  laugh ;  but  her  sense  of  the 
humorous  was  very  keen,  and  Sammy  was  a  zealous,  if  not  a  finished 
performer.  His  hand  was  just  stretched  out,  waving  Malviny  scornfully 
from  his  palace-door,  when,  suddenly,  he  dropped  his  tragic  air,  and 
exclaimed,  "  By  Hokey,  there  they  be  now ! "  and,  by  one  of  the  master 
strokes  for  which  he  was  famous,  he  tripped  over  the  basket  of  berries, 
and,  entangling  his  foot  in  the  trailing  clothes-line  that  depended  from 
one  corner  of  the  porch,  he  fell  headlong  to  the  ground. 

The  young  minister  would  have  disgraced  his  sacred  calling,  had  he 
stood  coldly  by  and  seen  a  fellow-being  in  distress.  He  released  Sammy 
from  his  perilous  position,  wiped  the  tears  with  his  own  snowy  handker- 
chief, and  then  insisted  on  helping  Kitty  pick  up  her  berries. 


354  KITTY  ROSS. 

"  Oh,  no ! "  said  Malviny,  who  stood  aloof,  by  reason  of  her  new 
muslin  dress,  which  both  she  and  her  mother  mistrusted  "wouldn't 
wash."  But  Mr.  Thurston  insisted.  They  were  the  most  tantalizing  of 
berries,  and,  upon  finding  themselves  free  once  more,  had  scampered 
into  unheard-of  places  of  concealment.  But  into  their  remote  fastnesses, 
behind  large,  glossy  plantain-leaves,  and  golden-disked  dandelions,  did 
the  young  minister  follow  them,  as  diligently  as  he  had  ever  burrowed 
after  a  Greek  root, , and  far  more  delightfully,  I  warrant.  Once  or 
twice,  his  white  hand  came  in  contact  with  Kitty's  little  brown  pink- 
tipped  fingers,  and  once  her  long,  sweeping  curls  grazed  his  cheek ;  but 
he  endured  both  these  trials  in  a  true  Christian  spirit  of  resignation ; 
indeed,  so  disciplined  was  his  mind,  that  I  am  certain,  when  she  had 
thus  smitten  him  upon  one  cheek,  he  would  willingly  have  turned  the 
other  also. 

The  acquaintance,  thus  begun,  Mr.  Thurston  did  not  allow  to  cease ; 
his  visits  to  the  farm-house  were  frequent  and  lengthy.  Mrs.  Ross, 
openly  and  proudly,  Malviny,  demurely,  accepted  them  as  tributes  to  her 
charms,  both  as  a  rich  man's  daughter,  and  as  a  maiden  who  was  alike 
industrious  and  economical.  So  time  ran  along,  till  one  evening  Mr. 
Thurston  walked  home  with  Kitty  from  an  evening  meeting.  That 
night,  in  the  sacred  retiracy  of  their  bed-room,  while  on  the  huge  feather- 
bed, good  uncle  Phy  slept  the  sleep  of  the  just,  Mrs.  Ross  lay  awake  in 
deep  thought.  Finally,  she  hunched  her  husband  in  the  side,  changing 
an  incipient  snore,  into, 

"What's   wanted,  mother?" 

"  I  have  been  thinking,  Pa,"  was  the  answer,  "  that  Kitty  would  like 
to  go  away  somewhere  this  summer,  and  mebby  we  had  ought  to  let 
her  go." 

Kitty  was  beloved  by  her  uncle,  as  well  as  by  Sammy,  the  terrible, 
and  the  mother  felt  that  she  must  be  wary. 

"  You  know  she  has  worked  pretty  hard,"  she  continued,  "  all  the 


KITTY  BOSS.  355 

spring,  and  I  'spose  folks  will  talk  if  we  don't  do  well  by  her.  And  her 
aunt  Huldy  —  she  is  her  own  aunt,  if  we  never  did  any  of  us  see  her  — 
she  has  been  writing  to  her  time  and  again  for  her  to  come  and  visit 
her ;  and  she  is  well  off,  and  getting  pretty  well  along  in  years ;  and  she 
might  leave  Kitty  something.  I  don't  know  as  we  had  ought  to  stand 
in  her  light." 

"  I  thought  you  couldn't  spare  her,  last  summer,  when  her  aunt 
wrote  for  her." 

"  Philander,  you  little  know  the  feelings  a  woman  has  for  a  child 
she  has  brought  up ;  I  am  willing  to  spare  Kitty  this  summer." 

"  Well,  well !  you  women  folks  must  have  it  your  own  way ;  you 
will,  any  way  ;  only  she  hadn't  better  stay  long." 

In  this  philosophical  frame  of  mind,  uncle  Phy  turned  himself  to 
the  wall,  and  resumed  his  nocturnal  music,  seemingly  taking  up  the 
broken  note  just  where  it  was  rudely  interrupted  by  his  wife's  elbow. 

So  it  chanced  that,  the  next  Sabbath,  the  young  minister  missed 
the  shy,  brown  eyes,  that  had  been  such  a  help  and  delight  to  him.  That 
day  he  preached  to  empty  seats,  and  the  next  afternoon  he  found  it  con- 
venient to  call  at  the  farm-house.  Malviny  met  him  at  the  door,  radiant 
arid  blooming ;  her  mother  also  was  in  fine  spirits ;  but  they  both  seemed 
afflicted  with  a  sudden  loss  of  memory.  They  couldn't,  either  of  them, 
for  their  life,  recollect  the  name  of  the  place  where  Kitty  had  gone. 
But  it  was  a  good  ways  off,  and  they  didn't  know  but  she  had  gone  for 
good.  She  wasn't  much  help  to  them,  and  they  thought  mebby  they 
shouldn't  have  her  come  back  at  all.  Mrs.  Ross  added,  however,  with 
some  show  of  sentiment,  that  "  though  Kitty  was  so  hard  to  manage, 
and  so  different  from  Malviny,  still,  when  a  woman  had  brought  a  child 
up  on  a  bottle,  and  done  for  'em  like  her  own,  she  couldn't  help  miss- 
ing 'em." 

Mr.  Thurston  was  not  very  sociable,  Malviny  thought,  when  her 
mother,  as  in  duty  bound,  left  them  alone.  He  could  not  possibly  stay 


356  KITTY  BOSS. 

to  tea,  and  he  was  just  drawing  on  his  gloves,  preparatory  to  leaving, 
when  Mrs.  Ross,  who  had  in  her  loneliness  wandered  up  stairs,  rushed 
into  the  room  with  frightened  eyes,  and  waving  cap-strings.  She  held  a 
paper  in  her  hand,  which  she  had  found  in  Sammy's  room,  and  then  they 
both  remembered  that  he  had  been  missing  since  the  early  dinner.  The 
paper,  which  the  young  minister  took  out  of  the  mother's  trembling 
hand,  and  read,  was  as  follows :  It  was  written  seemingly  with  much 
effort,  and  each  line  commenced  with  a  capital  letter,  like  poetry. 

"I  am  going  to  run  away 
Where  Kitty  is  I  love  her  she 
Is  sweet  Kitty  is  I  will 
Nott  stay  where  foaks  are 
Kross  and  will  not  give  a 
Feller  2  peaces  of  py 
When  he  Are  Starvin  Hungry 
So  no  moar  at  preasant 
U  need  not  look  for  me  for 
Deer  parints  I  will  not  be  took 
Alive  So  no  moar  from  yure  Sun 

SAMMUIL. 

p  s  I  Hoap  Malviny  wont 
,  Be  dry  now  when  she  has  a  Bo." 

As  they  read,  the  grief-stricken  parent  recollected  that  he  had  been 
refused  two  pieces  of  pie  at  dinner.  The  premises  were  searched  unsuc- 
cessfully, and  as  Uncle  Phy  was  absent,  Mr.  Thurston  volunteered  to 
walk  to  the  village,  only  two  miles  distant,  in  search  of  the  fugitive. 
About  half  a  mile  from  the  village,  he  discovered  Sam,  who  was  resting 
from  his  fatigue  on  a  stone-heap,  but  with  his  bundle  suspended  from  a 
long  pole, still  upon  his  shoulders.  This  bundle,  as  after-search  revealed, 
consisted  of  a  flaming  cravat,  and  a  paper-collar  of  his  father's,  a  box  of 
percussion  caps,  a  steel-trap,  an  empty  powder-horn,  a  pair  of  thin,  Sun- 
day trousers,  a  jack-knife,  six  jell-tarts,  and  a  generous  slice  of  sponge- 


KITTY  ROSS. 

cake.     He  scornfully  refused  to  return  home,  strictly  affirming 
Riverdale  he  would  go,  to  Aunt  Huldy's,  to  see  Kitty. 

"  Riverdale  ?  Aunt  Huldah  Bliss  ?" 
The  young  minister's  face  was  radi- 
ant. But  by  putting  forth  all  his 
power  of  persuasion,  which  so  few 
could  resist,  he  succeeded  in  bringing 
the  young  prodigal  home,  where,  for 
that  night  at  least,  he 
found  there  was  pie  . 
enough  and  to  spare. 
Mrs.  Ross  and  Malvi- 
ny  overwhelmed  the 
young  minister  with 
gratitude,  which  he 
received  with  good- 
nature ;  in  fact,  he 
seemed  to  be  in  such 
a  blissful  state  of 
mind  that  nothing 
came  amiss  to  him. 
But  he  could  not  stay 
to  tea ;  his  vacation 
was  so  near  at  hand, 
he  was  exceedingly 
busy. 

His  vacation ! — 
They  didn't  know  he 
was  to  have  one. 

Yes  ;  he  was  to  have  three  months'  vacation  —  the  church 
repairs ;  it  had  been  arranged  at  the  last  vestry-meeting. 


357 
that  to 


TIIE   RUNAWAY. 


needed 


358  KITTY  EOSS. 

After  he  went  away,  Mrs.  Ross  assured  Malviny  that  when  it  made 
a  certain  person  so  happy  to  do  another  certain  person  a  good  turn,  she 
thought  that  certain  person  had  better  be  getting  ready  for  what  might 
happen.  Malviny  blushed,  shook  her  head  playfully  at  her  mother,  and 
betook  herself  to  her  patch-work,  for  she  was  now  piecing  up  a  sunflower 
bed-quilt. 

The  third  day  after  the  hegira  of  the  terrible,  Kitty  Ross  looked  up 
from  her  sewing,  at  the  mild  face  opposite  her,  which  beamed  out  from 
its  lace  ruffles,  like  the  moon  from  fleecy  clouds. 

"  I  shall  be  just  as  glad  to  see  him  as  if  he  were  my  own  son,"  said 
the  old  lady,  impressively,  as  she  folded  up  her  letter,  took  off  her  spec- 
tacles and  wiped  them,  and  looked  up  at  her  niece.  Little  Kitty  was 
sitting  in  a  rocking-chair,  before  the  window,  and  Aunt  Huldah  thought 
she  looked  like  a  picture,  in  her  white  muslin  dress,  and  her  beautiful 
head  resting  against  the  carved  mahogany  of  the  old-fashioned  chair- 
back.  There  was  a  wonderfully  pretty  color  in  her  face,  too,  as  she 
asked,  shyly :  — 

"  Why  does  he  happen  to  come  here  visiting,  Aunty,  when  you  are 
no  relative  of  his  ? " 

"  His  mother  was  the  best  friend  I  ever  had  in  my  life,  and  when 
she  died,  his  father  was  most  distracted.  They  lived  next  door  to  me 
then,  and  I  took  Floyd  —  he  was  nine  years  old  —  right  here,  and  I  kept 
him  a  year.  His  father  died,  too,  a  year  or  two  after  that,  and  Floyd 
went  away  to  school,  and  to  college,  and  finally  got  to  be  a  minister. 
But  he  has  always  considered  this  a  sort  of  home,  and  has  been  here 
every  little  while  ever  since ;  and  if  he  were  my  own  son  he  couldn't 
be  more  welcome,  for  a  better  boy  never  lived." 

Aunt  Huldah  gave  the  letter  a  final  fold,  previous  to  its  life-long 
seclusion  in  her  bureau-drawer,  and  then  exclaimed,  triumphantly  :  — 

"  How  glad  I  am,  Kitty,  I  made  you  take  that  sage-tea,  last  night.  \ 
You  looked  dreadful  pale  when  you  first  came  here.     Sage  is  an  excel- 


KITTY  ROSS.  359 

lent  herb.     I  haven't  seen  such  a  color  hi  your  cheeks,  never ;  and  your 
eyes  shine  just  like  stars." 

Aunt  Huldah's  sage-tea  was,  indeed,  marvelous  in  its  effects,  if  that 
"  excellent  herb "  were  really  the  cause  of  the  brown  eyes'  lustre ;  for 
they  were,  indeed,  like  stars,  and  the  cheeks  —  why,  blush  roses  were 
pale  in  comparison  to  them. 

So  the  Rev.  Floyd  Thurston  thought,  as  he  sat  by  her  side  in  the 
vine-shadowed  portico,  through  the  long,  sweet  twilights,  or  wandered 
through  the  fields  with  her,  the  fields  that  "  ran,  dew-dabbled  to  the  sea" 
— for  Aunt  Huldah  lived  near  the  sea-shore  —  teaching  her  so  many 
things.  Why,  he  knew  everything,  Kitty  thought.  Why,  every  bird's 
name,  and  all  the  lovely  ferns  and  lichens  and  mosses  she  had  loved, . 
without  a  proper  introduction.  Why,  they  were  old  friends  to  him  :  he 
could  name  them  every  one,  and  the  rocks,  shale,  eocene,  and  pliocene, 
and  what  not.  Why,  he  had  only  to  glance  at  these  solid  mysteries,  to 
be  able  to  tell  its  name  and  age;  and  how  he  could  talk  about  the 
wonder  of  their  creation.  How  wonderfully  wise  he  was  ?  And  what  a 
marvel  it  was  that  he  could  care  for  her  enough  to  take  such  pains  to 
teach  her,  little,  ignorant  thing  that  she  was  ?  Thus  Kitty  thought  in 
her  sweet  humility.  But  Floyd  Thurston  thought  that  the  bright,  eager 
eyes  she  raised  to  him,  when  some  new  truth  dawned  upon  her ;  her 
quick  sympathy  as  he  read  some  choice  bit  out  of  Ruskin,  Thoreau,  or 
Hugh  Miller,  was  the  best  reward  he  could  possibly  have.  Sometimes 
he  would  read  poetry  to  her,  "  Lady  Geraldine's  Courtship,"  "  Gene- 
vieve,"  and  "  Maud,"  and  the  "  Idyls  of  the  King."  Not  always  then 
did  the  star-like  eyes  beam  fully  upon  him.  The  shy  eyelids  would  often 
droop  over  them  like  clouds  of  snow.  He  read  these  poems  with  a  soul- 
ful earnestness,  I  can  assure  you.  So,  through  those  long,  bright  sum- 
mer days,  and  early  autumn,  the  young  minister  taught  Kitty  the 
sweetest  lesson  upon  earth. 

And   in   blissful  unconsciousness,  through  these  very  days,  Aunt 


360  KITTY  ROSS. 

Ross,  the  schemer,  rejoicing  in  her  master-stroke,  bought  bright-colored 
calicoes  for  Malviuy,  to  cut  into  fantastic  shapes,  and  at  the  same  time 
taught  her  lessons  of  economy,  befitting  the  chief  lady  of  the  parish. 

But,  as  the  last  Sabbath  in  September  drew  near,  the  parish  became 
like  the  troubled  sea,  which  rests  not  day  nor  night.  Signs  had  been 
seen,  not  in  the  heavens,  but  at  the  parsonage,  at  which  curious  heads 
were  shaken.  Carpets  were  visible  out  under  the  plum-trees ;  the  cur- 
tains in  the  bay-window  were  known  to  be  taken  down  and  washed ;  and, 
upon  good  authority,  more  "  groceries"  had  been  purchased  at  the 
village-store  than  had  ever  gone  into  that  house  at  one  time.  This 
might,  it  is  true,  betoken  the  return  of  the  minister  only.  The  motherly 
old  lady  in  charge,  who  had  been  Mr.  Thurston's  nurse,  was  reticent. 
The  best  pumper  in  the  neighborhood  (it  is  needless  to  say  it  was  a 
female,)  had  plied  her  pump  in  vain  —  the  well  was  too  deep  ;  no  infor- 
mation could  be  gained.  But  it  was  well  to  be  watchful,  and  it  could 
not  be  denied  that  suspicion  was  abroad. 

Miss  Hathway,  a  maiden  who  had  bewailed  her  singleness,  forbid  it 
for  me  to  say  how  many  years,  called  upon  Mrs.  Ross  on  Saturday  after- 
noon, and  remarked,  "  I  mistrust  that  the  minister  is  going  to  bring 
home  a  wife." 

"  Oh,  pshaw !  "  said  Mrs.  Ross,  "  I  guess  I  know  which  way  his 
mind  is  sot.  Malviny,  you  go  and  bring  out  a  breadth  of  your  new  rag- 
carpet,  and  show  it  to  Miss  Hathway.  Haint  that  copperas-color  splen- 
did ?  Malviny  colored  it  herself." 

Miss  Hathway,  like  the  rest  of  the  unmarried  females  of  the  parish, 
had  seen  visions,  and  dreamed  dreams,  in  which,  if  an  angel  figured,  it 
was  not  a  female  angel,  but  a  young  man  with  a  long,  white  robe,  like 
those  in  the  sepulchre.  She  praised  the  carpet,  but  coldly.  "  I'm 
not  over  partial  to  copperas-color,  I  prefer  but'nut." 

Within  the  memory  of  the  oldest  inhabitant,  the  congregation  in 
St.  Jude's  had  not  met  at  so  early  an  hour ;  and  the  fans  which  so  wildly 


KITTY  ROSS. 


361 


fluttered  in  the  air  were  but  faint  symbols  of  the  agitation  that  shook 
the  breasts  of  their  flutterers.  But  the  sun,  which  never  looked  down 
on  a  lovelier  day,  hastened  not  his  chariot.  Neither  did  Mr.  Thurston 
appear  sooner  than 
his  wont.  At  pre- 
cisely half-past  ten  he 
walked  in,  and  by  his 
side  —  the  fans  sank 
in  the  laps  of  the 
faint  fanners — it 
could  not  be !  and  yet 
it  was!  Kitty  Ross! 
Kitty  Ross  Thurston ! 
for  the  tender  pride 
and  happiness  of  the 
young  minister's  face 
could  not  be  mistaken. 
The  faces  of  Mrs. 
Ross  and  Malviny 
were  tablets  on  which 
unutterable  thoughts 
were  traced.  But  for 
them  fainting  was  im- 
possible, for  at  the 
first  view  of  the  pret- 
ty, pretty  face,  look- 
ing out  from  its  white 

_,  A   SENSATION. 

draperies,  Sammy,  the 

terrible,  rose  in  his  seat,  and  whispered  audibly  to  the  stricken  Malviny, 
who,  divining  his  intent,  grasped  him  firmly  by  the  back  of  his  little 
plaid  pantaloons. 


362 


KITTY  ROSS. 


"  Leg' go,  Malviny  !     Lem'me  go,  I  say !     I  will  go  to  Kitty ! " 

"  I'll  Kitty  you  ! "  she  whispered  to  him,  in  direful  accents. 

But  this  singular  threat  was  powerless.  He  writhed  and  struggled, 
till  his  mother,  like  the  ancient  mariner,  "  held  him  with  her  eye,"  and 
assured  him  that  a  "  reckoning "  would  inevitably  be  the  result  of 
another  movement  on  his  part. 

That  brought  him  to  his  seat,  just  as  Kitty  lifted  her  sweet  eyes 
to  her  husband's  face,  and  the  service  began. 


BEATRICE   MANNING. 


RACE  WILTON  sat  at  the  breakfast 
table  yet,  although  a  half  hour  had  gone 
by  since  the  rest  of  the  family  had  left 
the  room.  She  was  not  weeping,  for  she 
was  not  one  of  the  women  given  to  tears  and  demonstrations 
of  any  sort.  But  looking  full  in  the  pale  face,  you  would 
think  it  would  be  well  for  her  to  weep  if  tears  would  wash  away  any  of 
the  pain  and  bitterness  in  those  large,  sad  eyes. 

The  time  had  been  when  it  would  have  done  one  good  to  but  look 
into  those  great  bright  eyes,  so  full  of  enthusiasm,  and  life,  and  happi- 
ness were  they.  What  had  changed  them  so  ?  The  world  said  she  had 
greatly  improved  her  condition  since  that  date  by  her  marriage  with  the 
rising  young  lawyer,  Lawrence  Wilton.  And  she  was  a  working 
girl,  one  of  the  toilers  of  life,  when  he  chose  her  for  his  wife.  She  had 
been  finely  educated,  especially  in  music,  which  was  her  passion  and 
delight.  Indeed,  she  loved  it  so  well  that  it  was  more  of  a  pleasure 
than  a  weariness  to  her  to  teach  her  large  and  enthusiastic  class,  for  she 
inspired  them  with  her  own  love  of  it. 

She  had  really  a  wonderful  gift  in  this  direction ;  she  had  already 
composed  several  pieces  exceedingly  creditable  for  so  young  a  person, 

f365) 


366  A  WOMAN'S  HEART. 

and  her  teacher  gave  her  promise  of  a  grand  future  of  fame  and  for- 
tune ;  and,  as  she  was  naturally  ambitious  and  enthusiastic,  these  pro- 
phecies gave  her  much  delight.  She  had  excellent  success  as  a  teacher, 
for  she  loved  her  work ;  and  then,  after  the  last  lesson  was  given  for 
the  day,  what  a  pleasure  it  was  for  her  to  tell  over  the  events  and  suc- 
cesses of  the  past  hours  to  her  good  brother  John  —  she  kept  his  house  for 
him  —  and  to  listen  to  his  cheerful  views  of  life  and  to  his  hopes  and 
dreams  for  her,  while  Molly,  the  neat  servant  girl,  brought  in  the  tea 
things.  He  made  such  a  pet  of  her,  that  if  she  had  not  naturally  a 
noble  nature,  she  would  have  run  a  risk  of  being  spoiled.  Brother 
John  was  not  rich,  but  he  was  abundantly  able  to  supply  all  the  com- 
forts of  life  for  himself  and  his  pet  sister ;  and  all  Grace  earned  was 
her  own,  every  penny  of  it,  to  do  with  as  she  chose.  Fortunately,  she 
chose  to  use  it  without  abusing  it.  At  the  close  of  every  term  quite  a 
little  sum  found  its  way  to  the  savings  bank  for  the  proverbial  rainy 
day ;  and  for  the  rest,  when  she  wanted  a  pair  of  new  gloves  or  a  new 
gown  she  had  no  one  to  ask  for  money,  she  had  only  to  draw  out  her 
little  pearl  portmonnaie,  and  step  into  the  shop  and  suit  herself.  And  if 
she  met  a  case  of  lamentable  want,  again  she  had  only  to  consult  that 
little  pearl  oracle  to  relieve  it.  Grace  was  extremely  warm-hearted  and 
generous,  and  I  think  she  accounted  this  as  one  of  the  chiefest  of  her 
pleasures.  Indeed,  she  had  such  a  liberal  heart,  that,  had  it  not  been 
for  her  sensible  head,  this  little  pearl  portmonnaie  would  have  often 
come  to  grief  through  lavishness  of  charity.  But  the  good  heart  and 
the  sensible  head  stood  it  safely. 

Wonderful  dreams  had  Grace  Seymour  of  future  usefulness.  She 
was  going  to  do  so  much  in  the  world.  Her  heart  ached  so  sometimes 
for  all  the  misery  she  saw  about  her.  But  she  would  do  all  she  could 
now,  and  then  in  the  future,  when  she  was  rich  and  famous,  so  her 
influence  could  tell  in  the  world,  why,  how  much  she  could  do.  If  she 
were  rich,  really  wealthy,  she  would  use  her  wealth  as  she  believed  God 


A  WOMAN'S  HEART.  367 

meant  it  to  be  used  to  help  His  poor,  working  with  the  Elder  Brother, 
indeed  touching  that  divine  heart  through  ministry  to  the  least  of  his 
little  ones.  Ah !  Grace  Seymour  dreamed  wonderful  dreams  the  while 
she  lived  her  happy  life  of  useful,  hopeful  labor — happy  in  her  free- 
dom, happy  in  the  good  it  was  in  her  power  to  do,  happy  in  her  broth- 
er's watchful  love,  for  he  surrounded  her  with  the  tenderness  of  his  love 
and  care,  trying  to  supply  in  his  own  person  the  mother  love  and  the 
fatherly  protection  she  had  lost — happy  in  the  ambitious  plans  for  the 
future,  for  Mozart  or  Beethoven  could  not  have  had  a  greater  love  and 
delight  for  their  profession  than  she  did  —  happy  in  her  journeying 
toward  the  enchanted  castle  gates  that  crown  our  western  sky  when  we 
are  only  eighteen. 

Well,  Grace  was  nearly  nineteen  when  she  had  a  new  pupil. 
There  was  nothing  uncommon  in  that ;  she  had  new  pupils  very  often. 
But  its  after  consequences  proved  this  to  be  an  uncommon  one.  When 
she  went  to  give  Ethel  Wilton  her  first  lesson,  as  teacher  and  pupil 
passed  into  the  best  parlor,  where  the  piano  stood,  they  found  a  beauti- 
ful little  boy,  perhaps  two  and  a  half  years  old,  with  the  gorgeously- 
bound  album  in  his  hands,  turning  the  leaves  with  moist  fingers,  utter- 
ing the  while  exclamations  of  satisfaction,  while  seated  at  his  feet, 
looking  on  with  silent  admiration,  as  became  her  sex,  was  a  little  four- 
year-old  girl. 

'  It  was  a  wonderfully  pretty  picture,  so  Grace  thought.  But  Ethel, 
in  the  wisdom  of  her  fourteen  years,  thought  otherwise. 

"Oh,  those  awful  children!     How  did  they  get  here?" 

She  wrenched  the  album  out  of  the  little  fingers  so  suddenly,  that 
the  wide-open  baby  eyes  winked  and  then  looked  their  pathetic  surprise, 
as  if  a  whirlwind  was  passing  over  it.  But  the  little  girl,  like  Rachel, 
"  lifted  up  her  voice  and  wept."  Ethel  commanded  them  to  go  back  to 
the  nursery  at  once,  explaining  to  Grace,  at  the  same  time,  that  they 
were  brother  Lawrence's  children,  his  wife  was  dead,  and  he  had 


368 


A  WOMAN'S  HEART. 


[Hi 


brought  them  for  his  mother  to  take  care  of,  and  they  "  were  an  awful 
bother."     Ethel  bustled  out  to  find  the  nurse ;  and  hand  in  hand  the 

babies  were  passing  out  of  the  room, 
discomfited  and  unhappy,  when  Grace 
impulsively  caught  up  the  little  boy 
in  her  arms  and  sank  down,  holding 
him  to  her  heart,  while  she  drew  her 
arm  round  the  little  girl,  and  kissed 
away  the  falling  tears. 

And,  at  that  very 
moment,  the  door  open- 
ed, and  Lawrence  Wil- 
ton came  in.  He  had 
heard  the  lamentation 
of  the  little  girl  as  he 
came  in  from  his  office, 
and  had  hastened  to 
her  relief. 

Lawrence  Wilton 
couldn't  forget  that 
first  look,  the  kind 
arms  thrown  around 
the  baby  form  so  dear 
to  him,  the  fresh,  sweet, 
girlish  lips  that  were 
showering  consoling 
kisses  on  the  face  of 
his  little  motherless 
girl.  And  Grace,  look- 
ing up,  blushed  under  the  grateful,  admiring  eyes  of  the  handsome 
young  man.  And  the  baby  stretched  out  his  dimpled  hands,  and 


GRACE   AND    THE   CHILDREN. 


A  WOMAN'S  HEART. 

•welcomed  his  father  in  the  unwritten  dialect  of  babyhood ;  and 
the  little  girl  toddled  up  to  him,  and  cried,  "  Papa !"  And  Ethel 
came  in  and  introduced  her  brother,  and  the  nurse  removed  the 
children,  and  Lawrence  Wilton  went  out,  and  his  heart  remained. 
Of  course,  you  all  know  how  it  ended.  Why  should  I  insult  your  pene- 
tration by  piling  on  words  ?  Of  course  they  were  married,  and  of 
course  Mrs.  Grundy  said,  "  What  a  wonderful  thing  Grace  has  done. 
How  did  she  ever  happen  to  catch  him  ?  "  Talking,  as  usual,  as  if  the 
female  sex  were  roaring  lions,  going  about  seeking  innocent  lambs  of 
men,  that  they  might  devour  them.  But  Grace  did  not  care  much 
about  what  gossips  might  say  of  her,  for  she  was  happy.  With  her 
whole  woman  heart,  her  generous,  uncalculating,  impulsive  heart,  she 
worshiped  her  handsome  lover  husband.  He  was  to  her  the  one  man  in 
the  world.  She  had  looked  forward  to  a  glorious  career  for  herself,  to 
the  delight,  the  unspeakable  delight  of  cultivating  to  the  utmost  the 
grand,  beautiful  gift  that  she  knew  God  had  given  her.  She  had  set 
her  heart  upon  all  this,  and  had  decided  that  nothing  should  come 
between  her  and  this  future.  But  when  she  loved,  she  drowned  all 
these  glowing  ambitions  in  the  most  .royal  wine  of  love.  She  forsook 
her  past  dreams,  burned  her  ships  behind  her,  and,  with  all  the  ardor 
and  enthusiasm  of  her  nature,  she  lived  only  for  her  husband,  for  his 
happiness,  for  his  advancement.  And  for  all  these  losses,  these 
thwarted  ambitions,  the  love  and  tenderness  of  this  one  man  fully 
rewarded  her.  For  nothing  suits  a  woman  better  than  to  be  a  slave  to 
the  one  she  loves,  if  her  gaoler  be  true  and  tender.  And  so  their  bliss- 
ful wedding  tour  was  through  Paradise ;  for  surely  it  was  not  the  White 
Mountains  they  were  journeying  over,  but  the  mountains  of  the  blest. 
She  has  been  married  eight  years  now ;  and,  as  she  sits  there  at 
the  breakfast-table,  you  would  scarcely  recognize,  in  the  pale,  spirit- 
less, unhappy  face,  the  bright,  laughing-eyed  Grace  Seymour.  What 
has  wrought  this  strange  transformation  ?  Perhaps  the  reader  may  be 
24 


370  A   WOMAN'S  HEART. 

better  able  to  form  an  opinion  for  himself,  if  I  should  relate  the  conver- 
sation that  has  passed  between  her  husband  and  herself  at  the  break- 
fast table  this  morning. 

"  Mrs.  Wilton,  I  will  thank  you  to  give  me  your  attention."  The 
tone  was  very  abrupt  and  domineering,  and  Mrs.  Wilton  raised  her  pale 
face  from  the  still  paler  face  of  the  little  invalid  boy  beside  her  at  the 
table.  She  was  fastening  a  napkin  around  his  neck  more  securely. 
Little  Robbie  had  been  an  invalid  since  his  second  year,  caused  by  a  fall 
from  a  carriage. 

"  Very  well,  Lawrence,  I  am  listening." 

4ilt  is  a  very  disagreeable  habit  of  yours,  Mrs.  Wilton,  when  I  am 
talking,  to  divide  your  attention  between  me  and  the  children." 

There  was  a  peculiar  emphasis  on  the  I,  when  "  I  am  talking,"  that 
gave  one  the  impression  that  I  was  of  paramount  consequence  in  the 
speaker's  own  estimation. 

"  I  don't  mean  to  be  rude,  Lawrence,  but  Robbie  needs  a  great 
deal  of  attention." 

"  You  are  making  a  perfect  baby  of  him.  There  is  no  need  of 
your  fussing  over  him  as  you  6^0  from  morning  till  night,  and  from 
night  till  morning." 

Mrs.  Wilton's  sensitive  lips  quivered,  and  it  seemed  a  great  effort  to 
keep  back  her  tears ;  in  fact,  she  was  nervous  and  low-spirited  this 
morning.  She  had  not  slept  hardly  any  all  night  before,  taking  care  of 
little  Robbie.  His  fall  had  injured  his  spine,  and  at  times  he  was  a 
great  sufferer,  and  required  constant  attention.  Her  husband  had  occu- 
pied a  separate  room,  and  so  had  slept  well  all  night ;  and  his  hand- 
some face  was  bright,  and  he  looked  refreshed  and  rested — a  great  con- 
trast to  the  tired,  pale  face  opposite  to  him. 

"  Robbie  had  a  very  bad  night,  Lawrence." 

"Yes,  that  is  the  old  story,  the  old  complaint.  I  am  tired  of 
hearing  it." 


A   WOMAN'S  HEART. 

There  was  a  boy  of  perhaps  fourteen  years  at  the  table  ;  and  at  this 
remark  of  Mr.  Wilton  he  looked  up  quickly  with  flashing  eyes,  and 
seemed  about  to  speak.  But  Mrs.  Wilton  spoke  before  he  had  an  oppor- 
tunity. Her  voice  was  low  and  gentle.  But  a  close  observer  could  dis- 
cover, in  the  inflection  of  her  voice,  a  hopelessness  and  a  despairing 
tone  that  were  very  pathetic.  But  her  words  were  commonplace. 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  complain,  Lawrence.     I  had  no  thought  of  it." 

"  No,  I  dare  say  not."  His  tone  was  sneering  now,  and  very  insult- 
ing. "  Of  course  not.  You  never  complain.  But  we  have  wasted  time 
enough  on  what  is  of  no  consequence.  I  was  about  to  tell  you,  when 
you  made  this  important  digression  in  the  conversation,  that  my  cousin, 
Beatrice  Manning,  Harley's  half  sister,  is  coming  to  stay  a  month  with 
us,  and  I  want  you  to  see  that  everything  is  done  for  her  comfort." 

The  tone  in  which  he  spoke  made  it  a  command,  instead  of  a 
request.  But  she  only  replied,  in  even  tones: 

"  Very  well,  Lawrence." 

"  I  want  everything  done  that  is  possible  to  make  her  stay  pleasant. 
She  is  the  most  beautiful  and  attractive  woman  I  have  ever  met,  with- 
out any  exception." 

Mrs.  Wilton  here  bent  very  low  over  little  Robbie,  giving  him  some 
small  attention,  and  did  not  reply  to  this. 

" 1  wish,  Mrs.  Wilton,  it  were  possible  for  you  to  copy  a  little  of 
her  ease  and  brilliancy  of  appearance.  But  -  Here  he  laughed  a 
very  disagreeable  laugh — "it  is  impossible  to  make  an  eagle  out  of  a 
ground  bird." 

Mrs.  Wilton  did  not  reply  to  this  short  lesson  on  natural  philos- 
ophy. But  Harley  Manning,  aged  fifteen,  age  of  chivalry,  spoke  up 
impetuously : 

"  Cousin  Grace  is  ten  times  as  good  as  Bee.  Bee  is  good  and  gen- 
erous by  spells ;  but  she  is  selfish  as  she  can  be  most  all  the  time,  and 
flirts  outrageously,  mamma  says.  And  Cousin  Grace  is  good  and 


372  A   WOMAN'S  HEART. 

patient  and  sweet  all  the  time.     She  is  doing   good  for  some  one  all 
the  while." 

Mr.  Wilton  did  not  make  any  reply  to  Harley's  words,  but  he  gave 
him  a  look  that  made  him  feel  younger  and  of  less  consequence  than  he 
had  ever  felt  before.  But  he  turned  to  his  wife  and  said,  with  a 
mocking  smile : 

"  I  congratulate  you,  Mrs.  Wilton,  on   having  such  a  champion." 

Little  Kate,  who  made  the  fifth  at  the  breakfast-table,  and  who  had 
taken  no  part  in  the  conversation  as  yet,  now  turned  the  subject  very 
opportunely  by  asking  her  father  the  question  that  was  of  most 
importance  in  her  mind. 

There  was  a  charitable  institution  in  the  city  that  was  doing  a  vast 
amount  of  good.  It  was  the  Fold  of  the  Good  Shepherd,  and  many 
wandering  and  homeless  lambs  had  found  shelter  and  safety  within  its 
walls.  But  the  past  winter  had  been  a  very  severe  one,  and  the  funds 
of  the  society  were  running  low,  and  the  ladies  of  the  city  had  been 
very  active  in  devising  wajrs  to  get  money.  Even  the  children  had 
become  interested  in  the  good  work,  and  a  series  of  children's  parties 
had  been  organized  to  raise  money  to  carry  on  the  work.  Kate  wanted 
to  give  the  next  party,  and  her  mother  too  was  anxious  to  have  her  do 
so ;  for  her  husband,  although  he  was  now  wealthy,  never  gave  her  any 
money,  only  what  would  barely  supply  her  necessities  ;  and  so,  with  her 
warm  and  generous  heart  and  her  quick  sympathies,  she  could  give 
nothing  in  charity  herself.  This  was  one  of  the  greatest  trials  of  her 
life  to  tender-hearted  Grace ;  but  she  could  only  endure,  and  let  her 
heart  ache  over  the  woes  and  wants  she  could  not  relieve. 

But  she  thought  if  Kate  could  give  this  party,  that  would  be  help- 
ing some ;  and  she  was  willing  and  glad  to  take  upon  herself  all  the 
added  care  and  labor  it  would  bring  for  the  sake  of  the  good  it  would 
accomplish.  But  Kate  was  used  to  rebuffs  from  her  father,  and  she. 
asked  the  question  rather  timidly. 


A  WOMAN'S  HEART.  373 

"Father,  can  I  have  a  party  here  to-morrow?  All  the  girls  are 
having  them.  It  is  to  get  money  to  help  the  poor  children." 

"Nonsense!  If  everybody  took  care  of  their  families  as  I  do, 
there  wouldn't  be  any  poor  children." 

"  Mamma  said  I  might  have  one,  if  you  were  willing." 

"  It  is  very  injudicious  in  your  mother  to  raise  your  expectations 
concerning  anything  of  the  kind.  Your  mother  seems  to  think  that  I 
am  made  of  money.  I  do  not  choose  to  have  her  throw  my  earnings 
away  at  her  own  pleasure.  If  any  money  is  given  to  that  institution,  I 
will  give  it  myself  in  my  own  way.  I  detest  children's  parties,  as  she 
well  knows.  They  are  perfect  nuisances,  late  hours,  and — " 

"  I  thought  we  would  have  it  in  the  afternoon,  Lawrence,"  said 
Mrs.  Wilton,  gently. 

"  Yes,  and  have  a  flock  of  children  rushing  through  the  house  all 
day,  ruining  my  furniture,  and  flocking  to  the  supper  table,  making  it 
impossible  for  me  to  think,  crazing  me  with  their  noise." 

"I  thought  we  would  have  the  table  set  out  in  the  grove  for 
them.  I  thought  they  would  enjoy  it  better,  and  it  would  keep  the 
house  quiet,  so  as  not  to  disturb  you." 

"  You  have  an  excellent  faculty,  Mrs.  Wilton,  for  making  every- 
thing appear  smooth  and  as  if  your  way  was  the  best.  But,  unfortu- 
nately, your  labor  is  wasted  in  this  case,  for  there  will  be  no  party 
given." 

Here  Kate  left  the  table  in  tears,  seeing  which,  Mrs.  Wilton  ven- 
tured to  remonstrate  with  her  husband,  but  in  vain ;  the  mandate  had 
gone  forth,  the  king  had  spoken.  And  taking  his  hat  and  cane, 
emblems  of  his  sovereign  dignity,  Mr.  Wilton  left  the  house  for  his 
office,  followed  by  his  young  clerk,  who  could  only  look  his  pity  for  her. 
You  think  there  are  few  Mr.  Wiltons  ?  I  think  so  myself.  But  few  are 
needed  in  the  world,  it  seems  to  me,  as  he  was  at  that  stage  of  his  life. 
But  then,  Mr.  Wilton  had  his  redeeming  qualities.  He  was  respected 


374  A  WOMAN'S  HEART. 

by  his  fellow-townsmen.  He  stood  high  in  community  as  a  man  who 
had  fought  his  way  up  from  the  masses  to  an  honorable  position  among 
men.  He  stood  now  at  the  head  of  his  profession,  was  much  sought  for 
in  difficult  cases,  and  could  command  almost  any  price  for  his  services. 
And,  in  speaking  of  his  upward  progress,  so  rapid  for  the  last  few 
years,  they  never  thought  of  awarding  any  praise  for  his  success  to  the 
pale,  quiet  little  woman  who  had  borne  all  the  burdens  she  could  take 
upon  her  shoulders  to  spare  him,  who  had  denied  herself  all  freedom 
that  he  might  be  free,  who  had  gone  shabbily  dressed  in  their  darker 
days  that  he  might  be  well  dressed,  who  had  been  nurse-maid,  house- 
maid, seamstress,  and  cook  to  save  expense,  who  had  taken  all  the  care 
of  his  invalid  child  upon  herself  that  his  mind  might  be  fresh  and 
bright,  who  had  laid  aside  her  own  ambition,  her  own  enthusiastic 
dreams  of  future  fame,  the  dear  art  that  had  seemed  almost  a  part  of 
her  life,  to  live  only  for  him,  for  his  success,  his  advancement. 

She  had  denied  herself  all  ease  and  means  of  culture,  till  her  natu- 
rally bright  mind  had  grown  rusty  and  dull,  as  she  couldn't  help  seeing 
herself,  and  the  dull,  heavy  weight  at  her  heart  seemed  to  drag  her 
senses  down.  The  roses  had  all  faded  from  her  cheeks  and  the  bright- 
ness from  her  eyes.  She  was  the  saddest  sight  beneath  the  sweet 
heavens — an  unloved  wife ;  and,  unfortunately,  she  worshiped  her  hand- 
some husband  still ;  for,  if  she  could  have  disliked  him  or  been  indiffer- 
ent to  him,  his  coldness  and  harshness  would  not  have  cut  her  so  to 
the  heart. 

Now  that  he  had  achieved  success,  was  a  great  man,  the  doors  of 
great  houses  were  thrown  open  to  him.  And  when  brilliant,  showy 
women  smiled  upon  him  and  petted  him,  he  would  contrast  them,  in  his 
own  mind,  with  the  pale,  spiritless,  faded  woman  at  his  own  hearth  ; 
and  I  think,  although  he  would  not  own  it  to  himself,  probably,  still  I 
think  he  thought  it  was  very  good  and  praiseworthy  in  him  not  to  get  a 
divorce  from  her.  But  he  showed  in  every  possible  way,  except  telling 


A  WOMAN'S  HEART.  375 

her   in   plain  words,  how  deeply  he   felt   her   inferiority  to   him.     He 
showed  his  impatience  and  indifference  in  every  act ;  and  little  Kate  — 
for  children  are  quick  to  receive  impressions  —  she  followed  her  father's 
example  in  too  many  cases,  making  Mrs.  Wilton's  burdens  still  heavier 
and  harder  to  endure. 

Beatrice  Manning  came  at  the  time  appointed,  and  she  found  every- 
thing about  the  house  in  the  perfection  of  order.  And  if  she  thought 
for  the  first  two  days  that  her  cousin's  wife  was  rather  dull  and  spirit- 
less, she  could  certainly  find  no  fault  with  her  reception  of  her  and  the 
unvarying  and  constant  attention  she  received  from  her. 

Beatrice  Manning  was  a  very  brilliant  woman,  one  who  had  great 
beauty  and  great  personal  magnetism.  She  had  counted  her  lovers  by 
the  score.  Indians  when  returning  from  a  successful  raid  upon  neigh- 
boring tribes,  bear  suspended  from  their  belts  the  scalps  of  their  vic- 
tims, trophies  of  their  triumphs  and  victories.  Had  Beatrice  Manning 
hung  the  scalps  of  her  victims  upon  her  belt  when  she  pierced 
their  hearts,  it  would  have  been  a  sight  to  see.  Locks  of  all  colors 
would  have  mingled  together,  from  the  ruddy  gold  of  the  sanguine  and 
susceptible  to  the  deep  raven  of  the  more  sombre  temperament,  passing 
through  all  the  intermediate  shades  of  brown.  Gray  locks  and  not  a 
few  venerable  bald  heads  would  have  appeared  there,  bearing  honorable 
witness  to  youthfulness  of  heart  accompanying  aged  heads.  She  was 
not  a  bad  woman  at  all  —  indeed,  was  one  who  had  good  impulses  of  the 
heart.  But  ever  since  strangers  had  stopped  her  nurse  in  the  street  to 
admire  her  in  long  clothes,  she  had  been  admired  and  flattered,  until  it 
had  come  to  be  her  daily  bread,  the  staff  of  life  to  her.  She  was  not  a 
happy  woman,  with  all  her  conquests  and  social  victories.  There  was 
too  much  natural  nobility  in  her  nature  to  make  her  wholly  satisfied 
with  the  life  she  led.  Her  fortune  had  been  told  her  by  a  sad-eyed  sibyl 
in  Italy  the  year  before.  It  said  "  she  was  doomed  to  a  grand  future, 
fame,  and  a  sad  heart." 


376  A   WOMAN'S  HEART. 

She  never  saw  the  fortune-teller  again,  a  strolling  gypsy ;  but  about 

a  week  later  she  accepted 
an  offer  of  marriage  from 
a  man  old  enough  to  be 
her  father,  a  man  whose 
only  attractions  were  his 
wealth,  his  title,  and  his 
high  station  in  society. 

At  her  request  the 
engagement  was  kept  a 
secret,  and  she  still 
queened  it  in  society  with 
a  high  hand.  She  loved 
to  see  men  at  her  feet, 
to  see  them  pass  through 
all  the  stages  of  the 
grande  passion,  from  the 
foolishly-sentimental  to- 
the  high  tragic.  Without 
meaning  any  particular 
harm,  she  was  one  of  the 
women  who  would  flirt 
with  her  grandfather,  and 
turn  his  venerable  head, 
if  no  more  eligible  speci- 
men of  manhood  were 
available. 

Just  now  it  amused 
her  to  see  how  complete- 
ly her  cousin,  Lawrence 
TELLING  HER  FORTUNE.  Wilton,   was   under    her 


A   WOMAN'S  HEART.  377 

influence.  His  business  had  made  it  necessary  for  him  to  be  a  good 
deal  in  her  native  town,  which  caused  him  to  see  very  much  of  her. 
It  was  since  his  cousin's  return  from  Europe,  and  he  had  been  thrown 
so  much  in  her  society,  that  he  had  treated  his  wife  with  more  cruel 
indifference  and  coldness  than  ever  before.  Since  his  mind  had  taken 
that  very  dangerous  route  of  thought,  what  it  would  have  been  to  have 
this  brilliant,  fascinating  beauty  forever  by  his  side,  his  wife,  how  he 
would  be  envied  by  all.  I  think  this  was  the  most  of  his  thought — 
what  a  sensation  she  would  create,  what  an  honor  she  would  reflect 
upon  him;  for,  beneath  all  the  rubbish  of  unworthy  thought  and 
deed  that  was  piled  above  it,  the  man  did  have  still,  deep  down  in  his 
heart,  a  love  for  his  wife.  But  the  door  was  hidden,  and  a  stone  was 
rolled  against  it.  No  glimpse  of  it  could  the  pale,  unhappy  woman 
see  during  the  weeks  after  Beatrice  Manning  came  to  be  an  inmate 
of  their  dwelling. 

What  she  suffered  in  those  weeks  only  He  can  tell  to  whom  she 
carried  her  aching  heart,  at  whose  feet  she  tried  to  lay  her  burdens 
down,  to  see  the  man  she  worshiped  so  blindly  and  utterly  lavishing 
upon  another  the  attentions  that  should  have  been  her  own,  to  see  him 
bend  entranced  over  the  piano  while  Beatrice  sang,  to  see  his  fine  eyes 
light  up  with  admiring  appreciation  at  her  bright  sallies  of  wit,  to  see 
him  watch  the  proud,  queenly  figure  with  his  soul  in  his  eyes,  as  he 
used  to  look  at  her  in  the  far-away  days  of  their  courtship ;  and  then, 
when  his  glance  chanced  to  rest  upon  her,  to  see  the  look  of  dissatisfac- 
tion in  his  eyes,  the  slight,  scornful  frown,  or  the  cold  indifference. 

Had  it  not  been  for  little  Robbie  in  those  days  I  think  Grace  would 
have  prayed  to  die.  But  he  needed  her.  He  seemed  growing  weaker 
as  the  warm  days  grew  on,  and  the  doctor  shook  his  head  gravely,  and 
hinted  of  heart  disease,  when  Grace  sent  for  him  one  day  after  Robbie 
had  had  a  very  bad  night.  Grace  had  buried  two  little  ones  of  her  own, 
and  Robbie,  dear,  patient  little  Robbie,  must  she  give  him  up,  too  ?  Not 


378  ^  WOMAN'S  HEART. 

if  the  most  devoted  love  and  care  could  save  him.  So  she  bore  her  bur- 
dens silently  ;  and  if  Beatrice  guessed  all  of  them,  it  was  due  to  her 
own  penetration,  for  the  patient,  sweet  face  of  her  cousin's  wife  never 
changed  to  her  for  a  moment,  only  it  grew  paler  every  day.  But  she 
was  always  kind,  considerate,  and  gentle,  and  not  a  task  was  omitted, 
not  a  duty  was  neglected,  not  an  effort  neglected  to  make  Beatrice's 
stay  pleasant  to  her.  But  the  four  weeks  rolled  away  at  last,  as  all 
days  will,  whether  leaden  or  rosy-hued,  and  the  day  came  for  Beatrice 
to  go.  There  was  to  be  a  grand  picnic  at  the  lake,  some  dozen  miles 
away,  and  from  there  Beatrice  was  to  go  home  with  some  lady  friend 
who  lived  near  the  lake  for  a  few  days,  and  from  thence  to  her  own 
home.  Grace  excused  herself  from  going,  for  Robbie  was  not  nearly  so 
well.  Her  husband  did  not  seem  displeased  with  the  determination. 
When  Beatrice  parted  with  her  hostess,  Grace  was  calm  and  quiet  and 
gentle  as  ever ;  but  Beatrice  threw  her  arms  around  her  neck  impuls- 
ively, and  kissed  her  again  and  again ;  and,  as  she  lifted  her  face,  there 
were  tears  softening  her  large  dark  eyes.  What  thoughts  had  come  to 
her  at  that  parting  she  herself  knew,  but  no  one  else  at  that  time,  for 
she  said  nothing.  But  it  was  in  the  afternoon  of  that  day,  she  was  sit- 
ting alone  in  a  cedar-shadowed  nook  by  the  silent  water.  She  had  wan- 
dered away  from  the  gay  crowd,  for  she  wanted  to  be  alone.  She  was 
in  one  of  her  softened  moods,  one  could  see,  as  she  sat  there  with  her 
hands  clasped  over  her  knees,  and  her  large,  dark,  troubled  eyes  looking 
outward  over  the  waste  of  waters.  Perhaps  she  was  thinking  of  what 
the  sad-eyed  gypsy  woman  had  foretold  of  her  future,  "  doomed  to  a 
grand  future,  fame,  and  a  sad  heart."  Perhaps  she  was  thinking  of  the 
frivolity  and  selfishness  of  her  life,  lived  only  for  selfish  purposes,  and 
comparing  it  with  a  nobler  life,  unselfish,  patient,  Christ-like,  a  life 
given  for  others.  But  through  whatever  ideal  world  her  thoughts  were 
roaming,  they  were  quickly  recalled  to  the  actual,  the  present,  by  a 
voice  at  her  side. 


A  WOMAN'S  HEART.  379 

"  Beatrice,  I  have  been  looking  for  you." 

"  Well,  cousin  Lawrence,  you  have  found  me,  it  seems." 

He  sat  down  by  her  side,  on  the  green  moss  carpet.  "Haven't 
you  been  lonely  here  by  yourself?" 

"  No,  I  am  never  lonely  when  alone.  I  think  it  is  a  very  poor 
compliment  to  one's  self  to  be  lonesome  when  you  are  alone." 

"You  are  different  from  any  one  else.  There  is  no  one  like  you." 
His  tone  and  glance  were  exceedingly  lover-like. 

"  That  is  a  doubtful  compliment,  cousin  Lawrence."  She  spoke 
lightly ;  for,  however  she  delighted  to  tread  on  men's  hearts,  to  witness 
her  power  over  them,  she  had  too  much  self-respect  to  allow  a  married 
man  to  make  love  to  her  in  plain  terms.  But  Lawrence  went  on, 
speaking  rapidly. 

"  You  must  know  what  I  mean,  Beatrice,  when  I  say  there  is  no 
other  woman  like  you.  How  am  I  to  live  without  you  ?  When  I 
compare  you,  in  my  own  mind,  to  the  woman  I  am  bound  to,  it  half 
crazes  me  with  regret." 

Half-crazed,  indeed,  he  must  have  been,  or  he  would  never  have 
dared  to  speak  thus  to  Beatrice  Manning;  for,  as  he  went  on  with 
his  wild  words,  speaking  of  his  wife  and  of  her,  she  sprang  to  her 
feet, 

"  How  dare  you !  How  dare  you  speak  so  to  me  ?"  And  then  her 
great  flashing  eyes  looked  through  his  very  soul,  it  seemed  to  him,  as 
she  went  on ;  for  Beatrice  was  in  one  of  her  heroic  moods,  when  she 
forgot  herself  and  the  world. 

"  Lawrence  Wilton,  I  have  wanted  to  have  a  plain  talk  with  you. 
But  perhaps  I  should  never  have  told  you  what  was  in  my  heart  had 
not  you  dared  to  insult  me  by  telling  me  that  you  loved  me — you,  a 
married  man !  I  pass  over  the  insult  to  myself,  which  you  will  never  have 
an  opportunity  to  repeat,  cousin  Lawrence ;  for  my  betrothed  husband  sails 
from  England  to-morrow,  and  in  two  months  I  return  with  him,  and  our 


380 


A   WOMAN'S  HEART. 


paths  will  never  cross  again. 


PLAIN   TALK. 


I  pass  over  the  insult  to  myself.  But, 
my  God !  to  think  of  your 
treatment  of  that  angel, 
your  wife.  I  have  been 
thinking  of  her  all  day,  of 
her  beautiful  life  of  duty, 
so  perfectly  and  patiently 
performed,  of  her  gentle 
patience,  her  Christ-like 
forbearance  and  long-suf- 
fering. You  say,  to  com- 
pare her  with  me  makes 
you  wild  with  regret.  Do 
you  know  that  when  I 
compare  myself  with  her 
it  makes  me  wild  with  re- 
gret and  remorse.  How 
mean  my  empty,  frivolous, 
butterfly  life  looks  in  com- 
parison with  her  self-sac- 
rificing noble  one.  Her 
silent  example  has  preach- 
ed to  me  as  no  sermon 
ever  did.  She  has  made 
me  a  better  woman  just  to 
know  her  for  one  month. 
She  is  an  angel,  Lawrence 
Wilton,  and  you  are  a  vil- 
lain to  treat  her  as  you  do." 
Never,  from  opposing 
lawyer  did  Lawrence  Wil- 


A   WOMAN'S  HEART.  33! 

ton  listen  to  plainer  truths,  spoken  in  plainer  language.  He  turned 
pale  to  his  lips,  and  once  or  twice  made  a  gesture  as  if  to  interrupt 
her;  but,  as  well  might  you  endeavor  to  stay  a  mountain  torrent  as 
to  check  her  impetuous  speech. 

"  If  she  is  faded,  spiritless,  emotionless,  as  you  say,  whose  work  is 
it,  I  would  like  to  know.  I  saw  her  picture,  painted  the  year  before  you 
married  her.  Look  at  her  face  as  she  looks  there,  and  see  if  that  is 
4  faded,  spiritless,  washed-out.'  It  is  beautiful,  radiant  with  hope  and 
ambition,  and  intelligence ;  and,  if  all  that  happiness  has  faded  from 
her  face,  whose  work  is  it  ?  Ask  your  own  conscience.  She  has  given 
her  life  for  you  and  yours,  thrown  aside  entirely  her  own  individuality, 
her  hopes  of  advancement  in  her  own  sphere  of  ambition.  I  have 
heard  of  her  bright  promise  from  one  who  knew  her  well.  She  gave  up 
all  her  personal  ambition,  and  lived  only  for  your  happiness,  for  your 
advancement,  took  the  care  of  your  motherless  children,  little  feeble 
Robbie  upon  herself,  saved  you  from  all  household  annoyances  and  vexa- 
tions that  might  distract  your  attention,  took  all  your  burdens  upon  her- 
self, so  you  could  be  free  and  rise  upward,  has  done  the  work  two  women 
ought  not  to  have  done,  has  been  nurse,  household  drudge,  seamstress, 
and  cook ;  and  has  borne  all  her  cares  and  toil  and  your  coldness  and 
indifference  with  an  almost  heavenly  patience  and  forbearance.  And 
yet,  after  she  has  wasted  all  the  freshness  and  the  beauty  of  her  life 
upon  you,  after  you  have  accepted  daily  the  sacrifice  of  all  she  is  and  all 
she  hoped  to  be,  still  you  dare  to  say  you  have  grown  away  from  her, 
and  taunt  her  with  her  inferiority,  when,  if  you  were  not  blinder  than  a 
mole,  you  could  see  that  she  is  as  much  above  you  as  an  angel  is  above 
a  human  being.  Go  home,  sir,  and  try  to  atone  for  the  evil  you  have 
done  her,  if  you  can.  For,  I  tell  you,  you  are  breaking  her  heart  with 
your  coldness  and  neglect." 

"  You  are  mistaken,  Beatrice,"  said  Wilton,  with  white  lips,  "  she 
is  always  calm — " 


382  ^    WOMAN'S  HEART. 

"It  is  the  calmness  of  despair.  Don't  imagine  I  am  deceived.  A 
woman's  heart  can  read  a  woman's  heart.  She  worships  you  like  a 
demigod,  and  I  tell  you  you  are  killing  her  with  your  neglect  and  indif- 
ference. And  I  despise  myself  when  I  think  that  I,  in  my  wicked 
vanity,  have  added  to  her  pain  by  receiving  your  attentions,  your  flat- 
teries ?  I  do  despise  myself  and  you." 

A  sound  of  gay  voices  was  heard  coming  nearer ;  for  Beatrice  Man- 
ning was  too  bright  and  particular  a  star  to  be  missed  long  without 
being  followed  diligently.  And,  as  they  approached,  her  cousin  turned 
and  left  her  without  a  word  ;  and  in  a  few  minutes  he  pleaded  a  busi- 
ness engagement,  and  left  the  party,  and  returned  home.  He  wanted  to 
be  alone,  he  wanted  to  think.  Could  there  be  any  truth  in  what  Beat- 
rice had  said  ?  Was  he  breaking  his  wife's  heart  ?  How  Beatrice  had 
talked  to  him!  He  thought  he  hated  her  as  he  recalled  her  cutting, 
passionate  words.  A  villain  she  had  called  him.  And  then  he  corn-- 
pared her  angry,  flashing  eyes  with  the  eyes  in  which  he  had  never  seen 
an  angry  gleam.  But  he  had  seen  sadness  there.  He  had  called  her 
spiritless  and  dull.  Was  it  because  her  heart  was  breaking,  through 
his  neglect? 

"  She  worships  you  like  a  demigod."  In  all  the  sorrow  of  his 
awakened  remorse,  the  man's  vanity  was  pleased  with  this.  He  would 
repay  her  for  this  devotion ;  he  would  reward  her  for  the  long  suffering 
he  had  caused  her ;  he  would  be  gentle  and  tender  to  her  henceforth, 
the  patient  wife,  the  dear  wife.  For  the  man's  love,  that  was  not  dead, 
but  had  been  sleeping,  was  now  awakened. 

He  reached  home  at  twilight.  The  one  servant  met  him  at  the 
garden  gate  breathless,  running  for  dear  life. 

"  Master  Robbie  it  is  who  is  gone,  sure." 

"  Gone  ?     What  do  you  mean  ?  "  said  he,  taking  her  by  the  arm. 

"  And  it  is  dead  he  is,  for  sure,  and  the  mistress  is  raving  crazy. 
Shall  I  go  for  the  doctor?" 


A   WOMAN'S  HEART. 


383 


liable 


"  Yes,  go." 

And  the  conscience-smitten  man  dropped  her  arm,  and  flew,  rather 
than  ran,  to  the  house,  through  the  open  hall  door,  up  the  long  flight  of 

stairs  into  Robbie's  room.  He 
had  thought  his  wife  had  been 
needlessly  alarmed  about  the 
child,  and  thought  the  doctor 
liked  to  keep  a  profitable  patient, 
when  he  had  said  the  child  was 
any  moment  with 
heart  disease. 
But  now, 
should  he 
never  see  his 
boy's  sweet 
eyes  again, 
never  hear 
him  say  "  Pa- 
pa." 

Before  he 
reached  the 
room  he 
heard  his 
wife's  voice. 
He  opened 
the  door,  and 
saw  her  kneel- 
ing by  Rob- 
bie's bed,  bending  over  the  still,  white,  beautiful  face  that  lay  upon 
the  pillow  so  motionless. 

«  Why  didn't  you  take  me  with  you,  little  Robbie  ?     Wasn't  there 


LET  ME  GO  WITH  YOU." 


384  A  WOMAN'S  HEART. 

room  up  there  for  me,  or  don't  they  want  a  breaking  heart  there  in  the 
happy  home  ?  Let  me  go  with  you,  little  one.  Mamma's  own  boy  that 
loved  her.  No  one  to  love  mamma  now,  no  one.  You  have  left  her 
alone !  alone  !  alone ! " 

Her  voice  rose  now  in  a  shrill  shriek.  Lawrence  Wilton  went  to 
her  and  tried  to  take  in  his  the  hands  that  were  lifted  up  so  despair- 
ingly. But  with  the  strength  of  insanity  she  tore  them  away  from  him, 
and,  springing  to  her  feet,  she  confronted  him. 

"  Who  are  you  that  have  come  to  take  away  my  child  ?  I  know 
who  you  are.  You  are  my  husband's  ghost.  I  know  you.  You  have 
come  here  into  my  home,  have  stood  here  freezing  me  to  death  with 
your  cold  glances,  your  cold  heart,  mocking  me  with  your  cold,  sneering 
words.  What  have  you  done  with  my  husband  ?  You  have  stolen  him, 
and  you  are  his  ghost.  Don't  you  touch  me !  Go !  go ! " 

Her  eyes  were  ablaze  with  frenzy.  "  Now  you  want  to  steal  my 
boy  from  me.  You  have  stolen  my  husband's  love,  took  him  from  me, 
took  my  happiness,  my  life  away.  But  you  shall  not  have  my  child." 
And  she  threw  herself  down  on  the  bed,  and  clasped  the  dead  boy  to 
her  heart.  And  so  the  doctor  found  'them.  A  deep  stupor  followed 
the  wild  delirium,  and  she  lay  for  days  unconscious,  while  Lawrence 
Wilton  repentant,  broken-hearted,  followed  little  Robbie  to  the  grave, 
and  bent  over  the  white,  still  form,  that  lay  like  death  in  life,  uncon- 
scious of  the  too  late  love  that  showered  kisses  on  the  closed  eyes  and 
white  cheeks  and  lips,  unconscious  of  the  burning  tears  that  wet  her 
face,  unconscious  of  the  wild  prayers  breathed  by  her  couch  that  God 
would  let  her  live,  would  give  him  a  chance  to  atone  for  the  past. 

Mrs.  Wilton  came  back  slowly,  very  slowly  from  the  valley  of  the 
shadow  of  death.  And  what  were  the  first  words  that  she  said  to  her 
husband,  who  was  kneeling  by  her  side,  kissing  her  brow,  her  cheeks, 
her  lips  with  more  than  the  old  lover  fondness  ?  Was  it  some  deep 
thought  born  of  the  solemn  places  in  which  her  feet  had  been  treading  ? 


A   WOMAN'S  HEART. 


385 


Was  it  some  question  of  great  moment  concerning  human  affairs,  of  the 
world  she  had  so  nearly  left  forever,  of  the  unknown  realm  she  had 
drawn  so  near  ?  No,  it  was  this,  the  first  thought  in  her  woman's  heart, 
and  her  voice  was  so  faint  and  low  that  he  could  scarcely  hear  it: 

"  Then  you  do  love  me,  Lawrence  ?  I  was  mistaken.  You  do 
love  me  still." 

"  Better  than  life,  my  darling,  my  patient  angel  wife." 
"  Then  I  am  glad  to  live.     I  wanted  to  die  ;  for  I  was  tired  out." 
"  It  was  my  cruelty,  my  wicked  coldness  and  neglect  that  tired  you. 
You  must  live.     God  will  not  be  so  unmerciful  as  to  take  you  till  I  win 
your  forgiveness,  by  doing  all  that  man  can  do  to  atone  for  the  past,  by 
showing  you  what  love,  and  care,  and  tenderness  mean.     I  never  knew 
what  you  were  to  me  till  I  thought  I  was  losing  you.     Then  I  found 
what  life  would  be  without  you." 

As  she  listened  to  his  words  there  was  a  smile  of  perfect  content 
upon  her  face.  And,  in  the  coming  years,  the  face  of  the  "  charming, 
bright  little  woman,  Mrs.  Wilton,"  as  she  was  called  by  her  husband's 
friends,  wore  the  same  sunny  smile,  the  sunshine  of  her  heart.  Queen 
of  her  husband's  heart,  enthroned  in  his  love,  she  envies  not  Beatrice 
Manning,  the  wife  of  a  titled  millionaire,  brilliant,  beautiful,  and  ad- 
mired, "  doomed  to  a  grand  future,  fame,  and  a  sad  heart." 


25 


THERE   SHE   IS. 


OCTOR  HUGH  MAYNARD  sat  upon  the 
veranda  of  his  elegant  mansion,  enjoying 
the  twilight.  He  had  been  reading,  but 
had  evidently  not  found  Ruskin  so  entertain- 
ing as  his  own  thoughts;  for  the  book  had  fallen  to  his  feet,  and, 
with  his  hands  clasped  behind  his  head,  he  was  leaning  back  in  the 
most  luxurious  of  attitudes,  and,  judging  from  his  countenance,  in  the 
most  peaceful  of  moods. 

It  was  a  good-looking  face,  with  noble  rather  than  handsome 
features ;  grave,  earnest,  blue  eyes ;  brown  hair  and  moustache,  and 
long,  sweeping  beard  of  the  same  color.  You  would  not  judge  him, 
from  his  face,  to  be  particularly  brilliant  —  and  you  would  be  right. 
But  you  would  be  certain  that  he  was  a  very  good  man  —  a  man  that 
had  a  true  and  sweet  nature,  and  had  lived  a  pure  and  noble  life  — 
and  you  would  be  right  in  that.  He  had  had  rather  a  hard  life 
hitherto,  but  in  the  conflict  he  had  not  strangled  his  better  nature, 
as  so  many  do.  He  loved  beauty,  heroism,  goodness ;  and  he  not  only 
loved  them,  but  sought  after  them.  He  was  a  very  affectionate  man, 
too;  a  true,  tender  heart  beat  in  the  breast  of  Dr.  Hugh  Maynard, 

bachelor,  aged  thirty-eight. 

(387) 


388  KA  TT  A  VENAL. 

Perhaps  the  adjectives  —  tender,  affectionate  —  may  seem  strange 
as  applied  to  a  man  who  had  reached  this  mature  age  without  hav- 
ing formed  a  real,  heart-felt  attachment  for  any  woman.  But  I  stead- 
fastly believe  that  tenderness  and  affection  are  not  alone  displayed  in 
caresses  and  passionate  vows.  Affection  is  sometimes,  and  more 
worthily,  shown  in  good,  earnest  labor  —  solid  blows  of  the  axe  and 
hammer.  Self-denying  labor  for  those  who  are  dependent. 

And  Hugh  Maynard,  having  had  a  pretty  tough  hand-to-hand 
encounter  with  poverty  and  a  poor  practice  to  support  a  widowed 
mother  and  a  younger  brother,  had  really  and  truly  not  had  time  to 
fall  in  love.  His  mother  had  died  about  a  year  previous,  and  Hugh 
mourned  her  sincerely.  But,  poor  lady,  her  whole  life  had  been  a 
sort  of  fretful,  complaining  war  with  fate,  although  her  son  had  sac- 
rificed much  for  her  sake,  and  had  striven  to  surround  her  with  all 
the  happiness  and  comfort  it  was  in  his  power  to  bestow  upon  her. 
Still  "life  and  fate  had  been  very  cruel  to  her."  That  was  her 
belief,  in  life  and  in  death  —  a  belief  so  thoroughly  incorporated  into 
her  daily  life  that  it  could  not  possibly  conduce  to  the  comfort  and 
cheerfulness  of  those  about  her.  But  let  us  hope  that  in  that  sphere 
into  which  she  entered  she  found  peace.  As  we  said,  Hugh  mourned 
lier  sincerely  —  much  more  than  Master  Tom,  who  had  been  his  moth- 
er's idol,  for  the  reason  that  his  nature  was  deeper.  And  it  was  a 
necessity  of  that  nature  to  love  something.  He  could  no  more  help 
pouring  out  the  wealth  of  his  affection  and  tenderness  upon  some 
object  than  a  river  can  help  flowing  onward.  Maybe  the  river  — 
as  it  washes  desert  coasts  and  bleak,  rocky  mountain-sides  —  holds  in 
its  heart  dreams  of  a  possible  sweeter  pathway,  star-glinted  forests 
and  mossy  meadows.  There  is  a  love  that  is  a  sort  of  torture  —  that 
receives  everything  and  returns  nothing.  And  it  maybe  that  poor 
Dr.  Hugh,  when  he  found  that  his  tenderness  and  his  earnest  efforts 
failed  to  bring  any  visible  returns  of  either  affection  or  content,  some- 


KATT  A  VENAL. 


389 


times  thought  what  love  might  be  to  him  — life's  crowning  blessing 
and  delight.  At  such  times,  I  suppose,  his  heart  grew  very  sad  and 
heavy,  and  I  suppose  that  he  took  hold  of  his  life's  work  with  more 
energy  than  before,  determined  to  do  his  duty,  at  least,  whether  hap- 
piness was  to  be  his  or  not. 

A  few  months  previous  to  the  date  of  our  story  a  distant  rela- 
tive died,  leaving  Hugh  sole  heir  to  a  fabulous  sum  in  bank  stock, 
railroad  shares,  and  this  fine  estate  in  the  country.  The  only  reason 
Hugh  could  assign,  in  his  mental .  gropings,  toward  what  could  pos- 
sibly have  been  the  reason  of  his  being  the  fortunate  heir,  was  that 


he  had  not  wor- 
the  rich  old  man 
flatteries,  but  had 
old  gentleman  re- 
minded his  own 
mind  one's  own 
dom  done  in  this 
I  think  it  is  richly 
thousand  dollars, 
glad  that  Dr.  Hugh 
As  we  said, 
neath  his  shady 
light  of  the  fourth 


I  m 


ROB. 


ried  the  life  out  of 
by  attentions  and 
simply  treated  the 
spectfully  and 
business.  And  to 
business  is  so  sel- 
strange  world  that 
worth  a  hundred 
and  I  am  sincerely 
received  it. 
he  was  sitting  be- 
portico,  in  the  twi- 
day  after  his  arri- 


val in  his  new  home,  enjoying  a  not  unpleasant  reverie,  when  he  sud- 
denly became  conscious  of  two  figures  approaching  him  through  the 
drooping  elms  that  bordered  the  avenue.  One  was  a  tall  figure,  enwrap- 
ped with  dignity  as  a  garment.  The  other  was  a  small  boy,  bare-footed, 
and  crowned  with  an  exceedingly  disreputable  hat.  As  they  approached 
nearer,  the  small  figure  slunk  modestly  in  the  background ;  but  the  tall 
one  advanced  boldly,  for  he  was  the  man-servant  of  Mrs.  Judge  Bun- 
come,  and  he  felt  that  he  bore  upon  his  own  shoulders  the  Buncome 


390  ^4  TT  A  VENAL. 

dignity  —  and  that  was  a  great  weight,  I  can  assure  you ;  a  smaller 
man  might  well  stagger  beneath  it.  He  delivered  his  message  with 
true  composure  and  pride  :  — 

"  Susanna  Buncome  is  taken  ill ;  your  presence  is  required  at 
the  residence  of  Mrs.  Judge  Buncome,  immediately." 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  the  lady  ? " 

The  tall  man  didn't  know,  exactly,  but  thought  it  was  a  kind  of 
"  runnin'-down ; "  "  the  Buncomes  have  it  a  good  deal." 

He  said  this  with  an  air  as  if  it  was  very  good  and  conde- 
scending in  the  Buncomes  to  "rundown,"  or  have  any  disease  what- 
ever. 

The  doctor  assured  him  that  he  would  come  immediately,  and 
he  had  already  turned  to  go  into  the  house  for  his  hat  and  other 
belongings,  without  looking  at  or  thinking  of  the  other  little  figure, 
so  completely  did  the  Buncome  dignity  absorb  attention  and  pervade 
the  atmosphere.  But  as  the  tall  man  departed,  with  his  head  well 
thrown  back,  and  the  doctor  was  also  disappearing,  his  step  was  ar- 
rested by  a  little,  piping  voice :  — 

"  The  school-ma'am's  sick." 

At  this  sudden  and  startling  intelligence  Dr.  Hugh  turned  and 
faced  the  speaker.  It  was  the  small  boy,  with  a  keen,  blue  eye  shin- 
ing out  from  beneath  the  torn  fringes  of  that  terrible  hat  brim. 

"What  did  you  say,  Bub?" 

"The  school-ma'am's  sick  —  don't  you  suppose  you  could  come 
and  see  her,  or  somethin'  ?  You  are  the  doctor,  haint  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  am  a  doctor." 

"  Well,  so  I  hearn,  and  I  came  up  here  a-purpose." 

"  Were  you  sent  for  me  ?  is  the  lady  very  sick  ? " 

"Yes,  awful  sick!  She  has  had  chills  and  things;  has  had  'em 
every  day  a' most,  talkin'  everything ;  scairt  me  most  to  death ;  my 
room  is  next  to  hern,  and  I  can  hear  her  talkin'  to  her  mother,  and 


KATT  A  VENAL.  391 

lots  of  dead  folks  j  she  is  crazy  as  a  loon,  an*  I  think  everything  in 
the  world  of  her;  an',  say,  don't  you  suppose  you  can  go?" 

"  Were  you  sent  for  me  ? " 

u  No ;  as,  I  say,  she  don't  know  me  nor  anything ;  and  Miss  Wes- 
kut  don't  do  iiothin',  only  just  jaw  and  scold  because  she  was  took 
sick  there.  She  haint  no  mother,  nor  nothin',  an'  boards  round;  an', 
say,  don't  you  suppose  you  could  go  ? " 

This  was  the  pathetic  closing  of  all  his  remarks;  but  still  Dr. 
Hugh  hesitated:  — 

"  Perhaps  there  is  some  other  doctor  they  would  prefer  to  me." 

"  There  haint  no  other  doctor  anywhere  round,  an'  I  hearn  Miss 
Weskut  say  this  mornin'  that  the  school-ma'am  had  kept  her  awake 
all  night  a'most,  talkin',  out  of  her  head,  an'  if  she  didn't  suppose 
you  would  feel  too  big  to  come,  she  should  send  for  you ;  an'  I  wish 
you  would  go,  for  the  school-ma'am's  jest  as  good  to  me  as  any- 
thing." 

The  doctor's  face  showed  plainly  that  he  was  deciding  to  go,  as 
he  asked :  — 

"  Are  you  Mrs.  Wescott's  son  ? " 

"  No ;  I  am  only  a  boy  she  took ;  my  step-father  bound  me  to 
her." 

He  said  this  with  a  melancholy  air  that  proved  that  the  mystic 
chain  wherewith  he  was  bound  to  his  mistress  was  not  a  chain  of 
roses.  Apparently  encouraged  by  the  kind  face  of  his  hearer,  he 
went  on :  — 

"  We  haint  neither  of  us  —  her  nor  me  —  got  any  mothers  nor 
fathers,  nor  anything ;  an'  mebby  that  was  what  made  her  always  so 
good  to  me,  or  somethin'." 

u  Very  likely,"  said  the  doctor.  "  I  will  come  to  Mrs.  Wescott's 
directly  after  I  go  to  Mrs.  Buncome's ;  I  must  go  there  first,  because 
they  called  me  first." 


392 


KATT  AVENAL. 


The  boy  strolled  off  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  seemingly- 
searching  their  deepest  possibilities  ;  and  Dr.  Hugh  proceeded  to  the 
stately  residence  of  his  most  aristocratic  neighbor. 

When  he  followed  the  servant — the  identical  tall  man  —  into  the 
presence  of  the  invalid,  he  was 
agreeably  surprised  at  her  con- 
dition. Her  "  running-down," 
had  not  affected  her  face  un- 
pleasantly, nor  her  garments. 
She  was  clothed  in  an  elaborate- 


"A  RUNNIN'  DOWN." 


ly  beflounced  and  beruffled  morning-dress  of  pale-blue,  very  becoming 
to   her   delicate,  rosy  complexion ;    and  the   easy-chair,  in   which   she 
was  reclining  in  a  very  graceful  attitude,  made  her  seem  still  fairer. 
She  was  about  sixteen  years  old,  and  would   have   been   remark- 


KA  TY  A  VENAL.  393 

ably  pretty  had  it  not  been  for  an  affected  air,  which,  before  the  doc- 
tor had  been  in  the  room  five  minutes,  he  had  traced  back  to  its  true 
source  —  her  mother.  The  lady  greeted  him  with  great  cordiality,  yet 
with  Buncome  dignity,  and  took  upon  herself  the  labor  of  conversa- 
tion. Indeed,  the  young  lady  assured  him  that  "  it  was  all  her  moth- 
er's doings  —  sending  for  him  —  for  she  felt  well  enough." 

"  Do  not  say  thus,  dear  Susanne,"  said  her  mother,  "  expecting 
me,  or  Dr.  Maynard,  with  his  penetrating,  keen  eyes  (I  always  did 
admire  penetrating  eyes)  to  believe  it.  Dear  doctor,  you  don't  won- 
der at  my  watching  her  with  the  falcon  gaze  of  anxiety,  do  you? 
She  is  my  only  idol  left  —  the  one  ewe-lamb  of  her  lamented  father, 
Judge  Buncome.  You  will  understand,  dear  doctor,  of  course,  that  I 
speak  with  poetic  and  scriptural  license,  and  do  not  intimate,  in  the 
most  remote  degree,  that  my  husband,  the  Judge,  resembled  in  any 
degree  a  sheep.  Anyone  who  had  the  privilege  of  listening  to  his 
lion-like  conversation  might  well  scoff  at  such  an  idea.  I  only  meant 
to  say  that  she  is  the  hope  and  pet  of  the  Buncome  race,  and  the 
only  heir  to  the  Buncome  estate." 

"  Indeed  !  "  said  Dr.  Hugh,  because  he  could  think  of  nothing  else 
to  say. 

"  Yes ;  her  twin  and  only  brother  died  at  his  birth.  Susanna  Maria 
lived  —  Samuel  Miner  died  —  why,  I  know  not.  Fourteen  years  after- 
ward, my  husband,  the  judge,  followed  little  Samuel  Miner,  leaving  me 
a  broken-hearted  woman,  and  Susanna  the  heiress  to  the  Buncome 
estate,  which  is  a  very  fine  one,  and  joins  yours,  and  has  been  con- 
sidered only  inferior  to  that,  in  the  country." 

Dr.  Hugh  did  not  make  any  response  to  this  flood  of  intelligence, 
although  she  seemed  to  pause  slightly,  as  if  waiting  a  reply ;  but  he 
listened  courteously,  and  she  resumed. 

"Sweet  and  lovely  as  she  has  always  been  in  disposition,  still 
the  care  has  worn  upon  me — the  care  of  preserving  her  health.  You 


394  KATY  AVENAL. 

know  you  are  careless,  love."  (This  in  reply  to  a  somewhat  contemptu- 
ous exclamation  from  the  young  lady.)  "  And  then,  besides  her 
health,  the  thought  of  her  future  has  worn  upon  me.  I  knew  she 
would  be  the  prey  of  fortune-hunters."  (Another  still  more  impatient 
gesture  from  the  young  lady,  answered  by :  "  You  know,  dear,  that 
fortune-hunters  are  abroad,  and  it  is  useless  to  deny  it.  I  have  thought 
many  a  time,  doctor,  in  the  lone  midnight,  that  if  I  could  see  her 
united  to  a  good  man  whom  I  could  trust,  and  who  had  wealth  of  his 
own,  proving  conclusively  that  he  sought  my  sweet  child  for  herself 
alone,  I  would  be  willing  to  follow  little  Samuel  Miner  and  the 
Judge.") 

For  some  half  an  hour  did  Dr.  Hugh  remain  in  that  luxurious 
apartment,  a  silent  victim  to  the  remarkable  conversational  powers  of 
the  relict  of  Judge  Buncome. 

Finally,  taking  advantage  of  a  temporary  lull  in  the  gentle,  unceas- 
ing shower  of  words,  he  made  a  slight  prescription  for  the  daughter, 
and  departed,  not,  however,  without  pressing  solicitations  from  the 
mother  "  to  repeat  his  call,  in  a  neighborly,  if  not  a  professional  way, 
as  he  was  all  the  neighbor  they  had  —  of  course  she  did  not  reckon 
the  poor  people  about  them  as  any  society  for  herself  or  Susanna." 

As  Dr.  Hugh  went  down  the  broad  walk  that  led  to  the  high- 
way, he  found  his  young  friend  of  the  torn  hat-brim  perched  upon 
the  gate  post,  like  a  disreputable  statue. 

He  jumped  down,  and  opened  the  gate,  and,  having  fastened  it,  he 
followed  on  at  the  doctor's  side. 

"  I  thought  I'd  tell  you  not  to  say  nothin'  to  Miss  Weskut  about 
my  goin'  after  you,  for  like's  not  she'd  be  madder  than  a  hen. 
Couldn't  you  tell  'em  you  happened  in,  or  somethin'  ?  " 

Here  was  a  new  dilemma  for  our  bashful  doctor,  and  he  betrayed 
signs  of  succumbing  to  his  strong  disposition  to  flee.  The  small  boy 
saw  it,  and  said,  reprovingly  :  — 


KATT  A  VENAL. 


395 


"If  you  only  knew  how  sick  she  is,  and  how  good  she  is,  you 
would  almost  run  to  get  there." 

So,  guided  and  encouraged  by  Rob  —  this  was  the  boy's  name 

Doctor  Hugh  was  led  toward  a  dreary-looking  farm-house,  not  far 
from  his  own  residence  through  the  fields,  but  about  a  mile  distant 
by  the  road. 

In  the  outskirts  of  the  farmyard  Rob  vanished  mysteriously,  and 
the  doctor  advanced  alone,  and  rapped  at  the  unpainted  front  door. 


Mrs.  Wescott 
knock.  She  was 
gar-faced  woman, 
drawn  back  tight- 
head,  as  if  she  was 
not  one  hair  should 
ance,  but  each 
in  hard,  if  not  soli- 
in  the  little  knob 
of  the  head,  over 
tress  a  horn  comb 
like  a  disconsolate 
ed  sentry, 
thin,  and  there  was 
expression  to 


MRS.    WESCOTT. 


soon  answered  the 
rather  of  a  vine- 
with  every  hair 
ly  from  her  fore- 
determined  that 
escape  her  venge- 
should  be  confined 
tary,  confinement 
at  the  back  side 
which  lonely  for- 
mounted  guard, 
and  broken-spirit- 
Her  lips  were 
an  indescribable 
them,  so  that  you 


couldn't  help  thinking  that  they  had  been  worn  away  by  sharp  tones 
and  words,  as  solid  rocks  are  worn  by  friction  of  keen  pebbles  and 
the  wash  of  waves. 

She  looked  rather  formidable.  But,  loyal  to  principle,  Doctor 
Hugh  betrayed  not  Rob,  but  simply  told  her  in  his  straightforward 
way,  that  he  was  Dr.  Maynard,  and  hearing  that  she  had  a  very  sick 
person  at  her  house,  he  had  called  to  offer  his  services,  if  needed. 

"Well,  she   is   pretty  sick,"   said   Mrs.  Wescott;  "but  we  didn't 


396  KATT  AVENAL, 

really  make  bold  to  send  for  you,  not  knowin'  as  you  would  want  to 
go  and  doctor  poor  folks ;  we  are  keepin'  her  on  charity ;  and  we 
didn't  know  as  you  would  doctor  anyway,  bein'  so  forehanded." 

Dr.  Hugh  cut  short  any  further  gossip  concerning  himself  by  say- 
ing, pleasantly:  — 

"  I  will  go  and  see  the  patient,  if  you  please." 

And  Mrs.  Wescott,  bewailing  the  fact,  self-evident,  that  "  I 
hain't  slicked  up  a  mite  to-day,"  led  the  way  up  into  a  chamber 
that  had  evidently  had  no  care  for  days,  unpainted  and  uncarpeted, 
and,  like  all  the  rest  of  the  surroundings,  barren  of  all  beauty. 

It  was  a  small  room,  heated  from  the  low  roof,  and  oppressive 
with  air  that  seemed  as  if  it  might  count  its  age  by  centuries,  and 
laden  with  all  the  various  scents  of  Mrs.  Wescott's  dinners  and  her 
husband's  pipes. 

The  first  move  the  doctor  made  on  entering  this  room,  was  to 
walk  deliberately  to  the  window  and  raise  the  sash ;  he  looked  round 
for  something  to  put  under  it,  and  took  from  the  table  near  the  win- 
dow the  first  thing  that  presented  itself,  which  was  a  copy  of  Mrs. 
Browning's  poems.  A  pale-blue  ribbon  fluttered  out  as  he  lifted  it, 
and  two  or  three  pressed  violets,  and,  as  he  remorsefully  picked  them 
up  and  laid  them  on  the  table,  he  noticed  quite  a  pile  of  books,  a 
delicate  work-box,  and  a  writing-desk. 

Having  let  in  the  fresh  air,  which  he  evidently  considered  to  be 
his  first  duty  —  and  Dr.  Hugh  was  remarkable  for  always  doing  the 
first  duty  that  presented  itself  —  he  turned  to  the  bed,  which  was  in 
a  sort  of  a  recess. 

There  lay  the  form  of  his  second  patient.  Quite  a  contrast  to 
his  former  one,  however  —  pale  as  a  marble  statue  lay  the  face  upon 
the  hard,  narrow  pillow.  The  eyes  were  closed,  and  the  dark,  clus- 
tering hair  streamed  down  in  rings  and  curls  over  the  white  neck 
and  shoulders. 


KATY  A  VENAL. 


397 


She  did  not  notice  them  in  the  slightest  degree  as  they  entered, 
and  the  doctor  advanced  and  took  one  of  the  small,  delicate  hands 
in  his.  As  he  did  so,  she  turned  her  head  wearily,  and  moaned 
out :  — 

" Oh,  mother,  I  am  so  tired  —  so  tired  —  so  tired!" 


"How  long  has  she  heen  like 
this  ?"  asked  Dr.  Hugh,  looking  silent- 
ly down  upon  the  pure  profile,  which 
he  thought  was  the  most  perfect  he  had  ever  beheld. 
"  Oh,  a-goin'  on  a  week." 

He  looked  up  quickly  at  her,  and  what  she  saw  in  his   straight- 
forward blue  eye  led  her  to  exclaim,  half  apologetically :  — 

"Oh — that  is,  she   hasn't  been  so  bad  as  this   all   the  time,  she 


398  KA TT  A  VENAL. 

was  only  took  out  of  her  head  last  night.  I  hunched  hiin  in  the 
night,  and  waked  him  up,  and  told  him  he  had  better  go  and  try  to 
get  a  doctor,  but,  good  land,  he  was  asleep  again  in  less  than  no 
time  —  I  do  believe  he  haint  lost  an  hour's  sleep  since  we  were  mar- 
ried, and  that " 

"  Give  me  a  glass  of  water,  if  you  please,  and  a  spoon." 

Mrs.  Wescott  hastened  to  bring  the  desired  articles,  and  the  doc- 
tor administered  his  first  medicine  to  his  patient.  As  he  lifted  her 
head  to  take  it,  she  looked  up  at  him  with  large  dark  eyes  that 
recognized  nothing,  and  then  closed  them  again  in  that  stupor  that 
was  neither  sleeping  nor  waking,  moaning :  — 

"So  tired  — so  tired!" 

And  the  doctor  sat  by  her,  silently,  with  the  white,  delicate  wrist 
in  his  hand,  counting  the  feeble  pulses,  watching  the  face  so  uncon- 
scious of  his  scrutiny. 

At  bed-time  Mrs.  Wescott  appeared  in  a  stiffly  starched  gingham 
dress,  ironed  for  the  occasion,  and  told  him  that  "  I  will  take 
care  of  her  through  the  night,  with  his  help,  though  I  don't  ex- 
pect much  help  from  him,  for  of  all  the  sleepy  heads  I  ever  see  he 
is  the  sleepiest." 

But  Dr.  Hugh  cut  short  her  conjugal  revelations  by  saying,  very 
decidedly :  — 

"  I  shall  stay  here  to-night,  myself." 

And  so  Dr.  Maynard  and  Mrs.  Wescott  sat  through  the  long 
night  by  the  side  of  unconscious  Katy  A  venal. 

Mrs.  Wescott  was  inclined  to  be  exceedingly  loquacious,  and,  for 
a  time,  it  must  be  confessed  that  the  grave  doctor  encouraged  her 
in  it  with  his  interested  eyes,  for  she  talked  of  Katy  Avenal.  "  She 
never  was  brought  up  to  work  and  shirk  for  herself,  and  it  has 
come  pretty  hard  on  her,  though  she  never  complains  any.  The 
annuity  on  which  she  and  her  mother  has  lived,  died  with  her 


KATT  A  VENAL.  399 

mother,  and  so  Katy  has  been  obleeged  to  teach  for  a  living.  She  ia 
a  real  good  Christian  girl  as  ever  lived  when  she  is  well,  and 
though  it  makes  it  awful  hard  for  me  to  have  her  sick  here,  yet  I 
told  him  that  we  wouldn't  turn  her  out-doors  anyway,  but  keep  her 
just  through  charity.  I  am  jest  as  willin'  to  give  away  the  bread  of 
charity  as  some  other  folks  are  that  look  down  on  me,  and  so  I 
have  told  him  many  a  time." 

It  may  be  as  Dr.  Hugh  looked  down  upon  the  white  face  he 
thought  that  Mrs.  Wescott's  bread  of  charity  had  not  proven  very 
nourishing  ;  but  if  he  thought  so,  he  intimated  nothing  of  the  kind, 
and  so  the  long  night  wore  away. 

Twice  during  the  night  did  Dr.  Hugh  think  that  his  patient  wa& 
passing  from  him,  from  a  world  that  had  been  hard  to  her,  into  that 
other  world  whose  bread,  once  eaten,  leaves  no  room  for  any  future 
hunger. 

"  Mother,  oh,  mother !  so  tired  —  so  tired." 

When  she  spoke  at  all,  through  the  night,  this  was  her  low,, 
weary  moan. 

Would,  indeed,  that  mother-hand,  haply  reaching  down  from  the 
land  of  pure  delight  to  clasp  the  poor,  tired  little  hand  in  hers,  prove 
stronger  than  his  hand  of  flesh?  And  before  morning  dawned  this 
question  had  become  of  wonderful  import  to  our  grave  doctor. 

It  was  a  hard  struggle  that  —  between  life  and  death  —  for  days 
and  days.  Life  conquered,  and  Katy  Avenal  came  slowly  back  from 
the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death.  Came  back  into  a  world  which 
was  not  the  old  world  at  all.  Where  had  that  old  world  gone  — 
that  great,  empty,  lonesome  world  that  had  held  only  herself  and  her 
care  and  sorrow  ? 

It  had  swung  off  into  space  unknown,  and  it  was  a  beautiful, 
tender,  blessed  old  world  into  which  she  had  been  translated. 

She  soon  got  able  to  be  down-stairs  in  the  square  room,  as  Mrs. 


400  KATT  AVENAL. 

Wescott  designated  her  parlor.  And  day  by  day  Dr.  Hugh  could  see 
the  color  coming  into  the  waxen  cheeks,  and  a  brighter  light  in  the  soft- 
brown  eyes.  It  was  a  process  that  interested  Dr.  Hugh  wonderfully ; 
his  visits  at  Mrs.  Wescott's  became  still  more  frequent  after  his  pro- 
fessional services  were  no  longer  required.  There  was  always  some 
excuse :  a  book  from  his  library  that  he  wanted  her  to  read,  or  some 
new  rare  flower  just  blossomed  in  the  conservatory  or  garden  that  he 
must  needs  carry  to  show  her,  or  some  bunch  of  white  or  purple 
grapes  that  was  safe  for  her  to  eat.  He  wanted  her  to  be  very  care- 
ful about  eating  fruit.  Of  course,  he  knew,  as  a  doctor,  what  she 
could  partake  of  with  safety,  and  so,  to  be  certain  that  she  did  her- 
self no  harm,  he  kept  her  supplied  with  the  rarest  and  ripest. 

Oh  "  square  room "  of  the  Wescott  farm-house !  blessed  beyond 
other  rooms  wert  thou  in  the  eyes  of  Dr.  Hugh  Maynard,  aged 
thirty-eight !  Thither  also  sojourned  with  him,  after  a  time,  his  brother 
Tom,  when  released  from  college  on  his  first  vacation. 

Katy  was  not  only  very  sweet,  and  loving  and  beautiful,  but  she 
had  a  great  fund  of  quiet  humor.  And  young  Tom  found  her  society 
extremely  fascinating.  So  did  his  brother. 

Tom  compared  in  his  mind  her  fresh  wild-rose  loveliness,  with 
the  professor's  bony  daughters  —  the  only  females  he  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  seeing  —  and  his  heart  beat  more  rapidly  beneath  his  shin- 
ing vest ;  she  being  a  few  years  older  than  himself  only  added  to  her 
charms.  For  Tom's  mind  at  this  time  was  in  the  state  usual  to 
nineteen  years. 

Between  the  careless  flowery  path  of  boyhood,  and  the  calm 
region  of  manhood,  there  is  an  intermediate  realm,  paved  thoroughly 
with  self-conceit,  a  realm  of  hair  oil,  and  gushing,  though  fickle,  ad- 
miration for  the  opposite  sex  ;  but  above  all,  and  beneath  all,  match- 
less assurance  and  wisdom  beyond  all  wisdom  of  later  years.  Tom 
Maynard  was  journeying  through  this  realm. 


KA  TT  A  VENAL,  401 

Katy  Avenal  talked  very  freely  to  Tom,  for  he  amused  her,  and 
it  was  very  easy  to  talk  to  him.  But  somehow  she  grew  shy  of  Dr. 
Hugh ;  she  could  meet  the  assured,  complacent  gallantry  of  Tom,  and 
the  admiring  looks  of  this  noble  being  laughingly  and  carelessly ;  but 
one  glance  from  Dr.  Hugh's  earnest  blue  eyes  would  set  her  heart 
a-tremble  just  like  a  bird  in  the  hand  of  its  captor. 

Rather  queer,  wasn't  it?  but  I  am  only  a  chronicler,  and  never 
had  the  most  remote  idea  of  setting  up  for  a  philosopher  and  account- 
ing for  strange  things. 

So  the  days  dropped  off,  one  by  one,  from  the  hand  of  time ; 
priceless  jewels,  myriad-hued ;  dark  to  the  sorrowing,  light  to  the 
joyful.  And  to  Katy  they  were  beautiful,  wondrous  days;  only  one 
trouble  disquieted  her. 

She  could  resume  her  teaching  soon,  it  was  true,  and  could  then 
faithfully  repay  all  her  debts,  but  in  the  meantime  she  must  eat  Mrs. 
Wescott's  "bread  of  charity." 

Now  the  bread  of  charity  must  needs  be  unpleasant,  even  if 
mixed  with  the  milk  of  kindness  and  the  leaven  of  love ;  but  Mrs. 
Wescott's  contained  neither  of  these  ingredients — it  was  very  dry 
and  very  bitter.  But  Katy,  through  hard  necessity,  ate  it,  and  ob- 
tained from  it  what  nourishment  she  might. 

It  might  be  that  Dr.  Hugh,  who  thought  of  a  good  many  things, 
divined  the  cause  of  the  shadow  he  sometimes  saw  on  Katy's  brow. 

At  any  rate,  one  day  Katy  received  a  letter  containing  a  bank 
note  of  fifty  dollars.  It  said  simply  that  "it  came  from  a  friend." 
She  thought  it  came  from  some  friend  of  her  mother's  and  received 
it,  and  used  it  as  sent  of  God.  One  of  the  first  uses  she  devoted  it 
to  was  paying  Dr.  Maynard's  rather  slender  bill,  and  as  he  saw  that 
she  was  so  very  earnest  in  the  matter  he  accepted  it  composedly. 

Dr.  Hugh  was  soon  called  again  to  Mrs.  Judge  Buncome's.  This 
time  it  was  the  mother  who  had  an  attack  of  "  running  down,"  so  preva- 
26 


402  KATY  AVENAL. 

lent    in  the    Buncome    constitutions.     She  was    well  enough   to   talk. 

After  a  recapitulation  of  her  symptoms,  from  which    he   did  not 
apprehend  a  fatal  termination,  she  waxed  confidential,  and  taking  an 
ivory  box  from  the  mantel,  she  showed  him  photographs  of  Susanna, 
taken  in  different  stages  of  life, 
the  subject  being  present,  enrobed 
in  silken  attire. 

But  to  her  credit,  however, 


be  it  said,  Susanna  maintained 
a  modest  and  rather  deprecating 
silence,  while  her  mother  kept  up 
a  running  commentary  on  the  dif- 
ferent pictures,  as  Dr.  Hugh  faithfully  examined  them,  he  did  every- 
thing faithfully  that  he  undertook. 

"  Susanna,  as  an  infant  sucking  her  thumb,  who  would  think,  in 
gazing  on  the  picture  of  infantile  innocence,  that  she  would  ever  live  to 
be  a  companion  to  such  a  mind  as  Judge  Buncome's  ?  My  husband,  the 
judge,  died  when  Susanna  was  fourteen ;  but  she  would  converse  with 
him,  even  at  that  age,  oh,  so  wisely." 


KATT  A  VENAL  403 

"  Susanna  as  a  cherub  child  of  two." 

"  Susanna  as  a  mirthful  image  of  joy  at  five.  At  this  age,  you  will 
observe  the  cherub,  but  rather  fleshy,  lineaments  of  childhood  begin  to 
give  place  to  the  noble  Buncome  features." 

"  Susanna  in  a  playful  mood,  holding  her  kitten." 

"  Susanna  upon  her  fathers  knee,  clinging,  with  one  waxen  thumb, 
to  her  pa's  watch  chain,  which  was  presented  to  my  husband,  Judge 
Buncome,  by  a  grateful  client  of  the  judge's." 

"  Susanna  as  a  school-girl,  clasping  a  Latin  grammar  in  one  hand  * 
an.d  a  bunch  of  flowers  in  the  other,  sweetly  descriptive  of  her  nature, 
which  was  both  solid  "and  flowery." 

"  Susanna  as  a  graduate,  in  her  snowy  muslin  dress  and  blue  sash, 
in  which  she  delivered  her  original  and  celebrated  effort  on  the  "  Plea- 
sures of  Spring." 

Lost  in  contemplation  of  these  pictures  of  Susanna  and  the  judge, 
Mrs.  Buncome  soared  aloft,  with  an  atmosphere  of  pure  gentility. 
Reminiscences  of  past  glory  and  greatness  dawned  upon  her  vision  like 
the  spires  of  distant  cities  to  an  aeronaut. 

Dr.  Hugh  listened  respectfully,  till  she  descended  into  the  present, 
and,  taking  up  a  small  vignette,  the  last  of  the  list,  she  exclaimed, 
rapturously : 

"  Susanna  as  at  present,  in  her  sweet  maidenhood." 

And  then,  holding  the  picture  out  at  arm's  length,  to  obtain  a  bet- 
ter view,  she  said,  pensively  : 

"  What  innocence  and  modesty  sits  enthroned  upon  that  brow ! 
How  beautiful  innocence  and  modesty  are, — are  they  not,  dear  Doc- 
tor?" 

"  Dr.  Hugh,  appealed  to  thus  directly,  replied,  "  they  are." 

"  Yes,  and  my  Susanna  has  always  possessed  them  in  so  eminent  a 
degree,  that  it  pains  me  the  more  keenly  to  behold  a  lack  of  them 
in  others.  How  is  that  Miss  Avenal?" 


404  KATY  A  VENAL 

"  She  is  gaining  strength  slowly." 

"  Yes,  and   isn't   it  terrible  there  are  such  stories  about  her  ? " 

"  What  stories  ? "  £aid  Dr.  Hugh,  with  a  sudden  expression  darken- 
ing his  eyes  that  Mrs.  Buncome  had  never  beheld  in  them  before. 

"  Why,  they  say  —  they  say  a  good  many  things  about  her.  I 
think  it  is  terrible." 

"  So  do  I,"  said  Dr.  Hugh.  "  When  any  one  dares  to  talk  about  a 
young  lady  so  good  and  pure  as  Miss  Avenal,  I  think  it  is  the  very  least 
they  can  do  to  designate  plainly  in  what  her  offense  lies,  and  what  they 
know  themselves,  and  not  hide  behind  that  convenient  personage,. 
'they  say.'" 

There  was  a  look  in  Dr.  Hugh's  honest  blue  eyes  that  made  the 
relict  of  Judge  Buncome  feel  smaller  than  she  had  for  years ;  and  it 
was  in  rather  of  a  hesitating  tone  that  she  continued : 

"  Why,  they  say  that  she  has  a  good  deal  of  young  gentlemen's 
company,  and  she  is  in  the  habit  of  receiving  sums  of  money  from  some 
unknown  source.  It  may  be  all  right,  and  I  presume  it  is,  but  people 
•  don't  think  it  looks  well." 

"  If  those  people  ever  mention  the  subject  to  you  again,  Mrs.  Bun- 
come,  you  can  tell  them  that  my  brother  and  myself  have  done  our- 
selves the  honor  to  call  upon  Miss  Avenal,  frequently.  I  don't  know 
that  she  has  seen  another  gentleman  since  her  sickness,  besides  our- 
selves and  Mr.  Wescott.  And  you  can  tell  those  people,  further,  if  my 
opinion  is  of  any  value  to  them,  that  I  have  never  before  met  a  woman 
whom  I  consider  so  worthy  of  honor  and  respect  and  admiration  as 
Miss  Avenal." 

Brave  Dr.  Hugh,  he  was  valiant  as  a  champion,  but,  as  he  went 
homeward,  his  great  heart  ached — ached  for  Katy  Avenal.  Had  he, 
instead  of  lightening  her  burden,  brought  heavier  upon  her  head  ?  If 
he  could  only  take  every  care  and  trouble  from  her  ?  And  then  such  a 
blessed  and  beautiful  solution  of  his  perplexity  came  to  him  :  if  she 


KATY  AVENAL.  405 

would  only  be  his  wife — it  he  only  had  the  right  to  take  her  in  his 
strong  arms  and  shield  her  from  all  the  cruel  mercies  of  the  world  — 
his  beauty !  his  darling !  It  was  only  natural  that  he  whose  whole  life 
had  been  spent  for  others  should  think  first  of  what  he  would  be  to  her, 
how  he  would  care  for  her,  and  fill  her  lonely,  sorrowful  life  full  of 
beauty  and  gladness.  But  when  the  thought  came  to  him,  what  she 
would  be  to  him,  what  it  would  be  to  have  the  love  of  that  fresh,  beauti- 
ful, loving  nature  for  his  own,  his  very  own,  it  was  the  most  won- 
drously  blissful  thought  he  had  ever  entertained.  For  poor  Dr.  Hugh, 
as  we  have  said,  had  not  had  much  love  through  his  life,  his  mother 
having  been,  as  we  said,  a  stern-faced  gentlewoman,  of  severe  turn,  with 
forbidding,  complaining  manners.  But  the  thought  of  this  gentle,  lov- 
ing little  woman,  waiting  for  him  at  home  while  he  made  his  profes- 
sional rounds,  to  see  her  face  light  up  at  his  coming,  to  see  her  grow 
bright,  and  well,  and  happy  in  the  sunshine  of  his  love,  to  be  his  inspi- 
ration, his  blessing,  and,  if  God  pleased,  to  be  the  mother  of  his  chil- 
dren— why,  the  very  thought  of  all  this  made  his  heart  beat  with  such 
slow,  tremulous  throbs  of  joy  that  his  face  shone  as  if  he  had  just 
looked  upon  an  angel. 

It  was  in  this  exalted  frame  of  mind  that  he  entered  his  hall,  and 
divested  himself  of  his  hat  and  cloak — not  ordinary  garments  of  broad- 
cloth and  beaver,  but  garments  of  the  gods,  crown  and  imperial  toga. 
Entering  the  library,  where  he  usually  sat  evenings,  cheerful  with  lights 
and  fire-blaze,  he  found  his  brother  Tom. 

The  sunshine  in  his  face  thawed  the  thin  crust  of  reserve  Tom  had 
preserved.  He  avowed  that  he  had  a  communication  he  had  long 
wanted  to  make  to  his  brother,  but  had  hesitated  doing  so ;  but  to-night 
he  looked  so  good-natured  and  smiling  that  he  ventured.  He  loved 
Katy  Avenal  with  all  the  deep,  concentrated  powers  of  his  manhood, 
and  he  was  perfectly  confident  that  his  love  was  warmly  returned ;  and 
would  his  brother  really  advise  him  to  marry  her  ? 


406  KATY  AVENAL. 

Now  our  doctor  had  not  spent  his  whole  life  in  cutting  into  the 
flesh  of  men  (a  wonderful  surgeon  was  Dr.  Hugh),  in  severing  limbs 
and  witnessing  mortal  agony,  without  obtaining  self-control.  But  poor 
Dr.  Hugh,  to  come  out  of  summer  into  the  depths  of  winter  with  no 
gracious  interval  of  autumn ! 

"  What  reason  have  you  for  thinking,  Tom,  that  Miss  Avenal  is  in 
love  with  you  ? " 

"Oh,  she  is  so  talkative  always,  so  free  to  talk  and  laugh  with  me. 
She  has  given  me  all  the  encouragement  in  the  world.  Haven't  you 
noticed  it?" 

Yes,  poor  Dr.  Hugh  remembered  with  a  pang  how  she  and  Tom 
had  laughed  and  chatted,  and  how  shy  and  odd  she  had  seemed  in  her 
manner  to  him  of  late.  But  one  more  question  he  asked  of  Tom. 

"  What  have  you  to  give,  Tom,  in  return  for  the  love  of  such  a 
woman  as  Katy  Avenal  ?  " 

"  Oh,  myself,  you  know." 

This  was  very  honest  in  Tom,  very  truthful,  and  impressed  his 
brother  strongly  ;  for  to  poor  Dr.  Hugh,  who  had  never  had  any  youth, 
there  was  something  awe-inspiring  in  these  noble  beings  of  nineteen 
years,  who  were  so  easy  in  their  mariners  and  so  marvellously  wise. 
He  had  been  a  father  to  Tom  always,  and  since  his  mother's  death  he 
had  tried  to  be  father  and  mother  both.  He  would  not  come  between 
Tom  and  his  happiness.  But  poor  Dr.  Hugh!  he  could  not  see  Katy 
much,  for  he  felt  if  he  did  he  should  forget  his  brotherly  love,  his 
honor.  Tom  trod  the  meadow  path  -alone. 

Tom  had  been  promised  a  grand  picnic  on  the  grounds  surrounding 
the  mansion-house  before  his  return  to  school ;  and,  although  he  had 
little  heart  for  it,  his  brother  made  preparations  for  it  on  a  grand  scale. 
It  would  please  Tom.  All  the  gentry  from  the  neighboring  towns  were 
invited;  and  Katy — Katy  must  be  there  for  Tom's  sake;  so  he  called 
to  invite  her  the  evening  before.  He  had  not  been  there  for  two  weeks, 


KA  TT  A  VENAL.  497 

and  Katy's  face,  as  she  rose  to  meet  him,  turned  red  and  white  in  sud- 
den changes.  All  for  Tom,  thought  Dr.  Hugh.  It  was  his  farewell 
party. 

He  could  hardly  stay  to  sit  down,  he  was  so  busy,  but  he  would 
take  no  denial.  She  must  come.  He  obtained  her  promise  at  last, 
although  she  utterly  refused  at  first.  He  made  but  a  short  call,  and 
very  constrained  and  formal  at  that. 

The  day  was  delightful,  the  people  also.  Susanna  Buncome  was 
radiant  in  blue  silk  and  floating  ribbons  and  tresses ;  and  from  the  first 
moment  of  her  arrival  upon  the  ground  Tom  Maynard  devoted  himself 
to  her.  And  poor  Dr.  Hugh,  who  was  always  doing  disagreeable  things, 
arrayed  his  face  in  the  wedding  garments  of  mirth,  .while  his  heart 
was  holding  a  funeral. 

And  Katy — Katy  was  there,  a  lovely-looking  little  figure,  in  white 
muslin,  with  a  bunch  of  pansies  in  her  hair  and  at  her  bosom.  But  no 
one  seemed  to  care  for  her  society  much,  unless  it  were  her  scholars. 
They,  indeed,  attended  her  like  a  guard  of  honor.  Mrs.  Buncome  found 
occasion  to  give  her  several  little  sly  thrusts ;  and,  indeed,  upon  the 
whole,  poor  little  Katy  had  rather  of  a  hard  time  of  it.  After  a  while 
she  wandered  away  into  a  secluded  little  nook  alone,  save  for  the  little 
zingara  of  a  rivulet,  that,  wandering  away  forever  and  sobbing  forever, 
seemed  in  its  disquietude  a  fitting  companion  for  her. 

Tom,  as  we  said,  was  devoted  to  the  beautiful  Susanna;  but  Dr. 
Hugh,  the  faithful,  to  a  memory,  often  placing  a  rather  uneasy  dowager 
in  a  better  situation,  found  his  attention  wandering  after  a  little  white 
figure  that  was  not.  At  this  moment  his  attention  was  attracted  by 
Rob,  who  was  partly  hidden  behind  a  tree,  making  the  most  mysterious 
signs  and  motions  to  him.  He  obeyed  them  at  once,  and  Rob  whis- 
pered in  a  low  voice  that  he  had  something  to  tell  him,  and  at  once  led 
the  way  into  a  remote  path.  Once  out  of  sight  of  the  gay  throng,  Rob 
paused,  and  faced  the  doctor.  He  looked  melancholy  and  anxious. 


408  KA  TY  A  VENAL. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Rob,"  asked  Dr.  Hugh,  good-humoredly. 

"  I  d'no ;  but  it  scares  me  awful  to  see  anybody  out  of  their 
head,  an'  I  believe  she's  goin'  to  be  as  crazy  as  a  loon  agin." 

"Who?" 

"  The  schoolma'am." 

"  Oh,  no,  Rob.  She  is  doing  finely.  She  is  almost  well.  Was 
that  what  you  brought  me  out  here  to  tell  me  ? " 

"  Well,  you  know  I  think  everything  of  her,  and  I  didn't  know  but 
you  could  give  her  something  before  she  got  clear  down  agin.  She  was 
jest  as  crazy  as  a  loon  last  night,  an'  I  seen  her.  You  know  you 
ketched  her  a  cryin'  over  it,  an'  kissing  of  it.  She  didn't  know  as  I 
dropped  one  of  your  gloves  there,  an'  I  seen  her,  an'  there  she  is 
down  there  by  the  old  rock  now.  I'll  bet  a  dollar  she's  there  any 
way,  for  I  jest  seen  her,  and — " 

But  Rob  poured  the  rest  of  his  words  upon  the  winds,  for,  with 
long  strides,  Dr.  Hugh  vanished  in  the  direction  Rob  had  pointed  out. 

"  0  Katy,  Katy  Avenal !  "  But  what  was  said  there  is  not  for  us  to 
reveal ;  for,  bewildered  by  the  sweet  knowledge  that  Katy  loved  him,  he 
forgot  all  the  world,  and  poured  forth  his  passion  with  all  the  unwasted 
romance  of  his  youth  and  the  strength  of  his  manhood.  And  so  sweet 
a  sunshine  never  blessed  him  as  dawned  at  his  revelation  in  the  shy, 
tearful  eyes  of  Katy  Avenal. 

I  have  no  idea  but  those  happy  lovers  would  have  sat  there  till 
nightfall — for  they  had  no  hour-glasses  to  count  the  falling  sands  in 
Paradise — had  not  the  voices  of  Katy's  body-guard  broke  upon  them 
half  an  hour  later  in  an  uproarious  search  for  wild  flowers. 

Katy,  with  as  shy  a  desire  to  hide  her  happiness  as  a  ground-bird 
to  hide  her  nested  treasures,  joined  them,  and  Dr.  Hugh  returned  to  the 
grounds  alone.  To  count  all  the  delightful  blunders  Dr.  Hugh  made 
that  afternoon  and  Katy's  pink  blushes,  would  be  a  vain  proceeding. 
But,  for  all,  the  picnic  was  pronounced  a  success. 


KA  TT  A  VENAL.  409 

Mrs.  Buncome  was  heard  to  wish  that  the  judge  might  have  lived 
to  attend  it;  and  she  was  heard  further  to  observe  how  pleasing  it 
would  have  been  to  her  had  little  Samuel  Miner  lived  to  become  such  a 
noble,  lovely  man  as  Dr.  Maynard.  Greater  commendation  no  man 
could  desire.  So  the  last  carriage-full  drove  away.  And  as  Dr.  Hugh 
was  left  alone  with  his  brother,  his  perfect  bliss  became  shadowed  with 
sorrowful  regrets  for  Tom.  "  Poor  Tom !  poor  fellow !  how  could  he 
ever  break  it  to  him  ?  " 

So  all  that  night  Dr.  Hugh  endured  his  triumphant  remorse,  his 
joyful  ignominy,  as  best  he  might.  And,  as  he  awoke  in  the  morning, 
his  first  thought  was,  "  0  Katy  Avenal !  my  Katy !  my  darling ! " 
And  then  the  remorseful  undertone,  "  Poor  Tom !  poor  fellow !  how 
shall  I  ever  tell  him  ? "  But  Dr.  Hugh  had,  all  his  life,  been  accus- 
tomed to  doing  hard  things,  and  he  was  not  one  to  flinch  now  from  this 
delightfully  hard  task.  And  as  soon  as  breakfast  was  over  he  decided 
to  tell  Tom,  and  endure  his  agony  and  reproaches  as  best  he  might. 
But  Tom  forestalled  him,  as  they  arose  from  the  table.  He  told  his 
brother  he  would  like  to  speak  with  him  if  he  had  a  few  minutes'  lei- 
sure. Poor  Dr.  Hugh  followed  him  with  a  beating  heart  into  the 
library,  certain  that  Tom  had  discovered  all,  trying  to  summon  up  some 
words  of  comfort  for  the  unhappy  man  who  had  lost  Katy  Avenal. 

Tom  began  : 

"You  know,  Hugh,  what  I  told  you  some  time  ago  about  Miss 
Avenal?" 

"  Yes,  I  remember,"  said   Dr.  Hugh,  with  a  compassionate   look. 

"  Well,  Hugh,  I  have  discovered  since  then  that  I  had  mistaken  the 
nature  of  my  sentiments  for  her,  and  what  I  fancied  was  love  was  only 
a  deep  respect  and  admiration  awakened  by  her  beauty  and  ladylike 
demeanor.  Her  helpless  situation,  too,  appealed  to  all  the  chivalry  of 
my  manhood,  and  all  those  different  emotions,  added  to  her  evident 
preference  for  me,  blinded  me.  But  since  then  I  have  discovered  that 


410  KATT  AVENAL. 

it  is  impossible  that  she  can  make  me  as  happy  as  another  can.  In 
fact,  Susanna  Bunconae  fully  satisfies  all  the  needs  and  requirements  of 
both  my  heart  and  intellect.  I  confess  frankly  that  I  have  done  wrong, 
if  I  have  by  my  attentions  awakened  hopes  that  I  cannot  fulfill.  But 
you  do  not  think  the  blow  will  be  too  severe  upon  her,  do  you  ?  I  thought 
I  would  consult  you  in  a  professional,  as  well  as  a  brotherly  way  ?" 

Oh,  blessed  conceit,  that  cometh  with  the  first  beaver  hat,  and 
weareth  away  with  the  gloss  thereof !  Not  in  after  years,  when  Tom 
was  the  happy  husband  of  Susanna  Buncome  and  the  father  of  twins, 
did  he  seem  so  large  in  his  own  estimation  as  at  that  moment. 

But  it  was  not  until  two  months  later,  when  Tom  received  an  invi- 
tation to  his  brother's  wedding,  that  he  fully  understood  the  meaning  of 
the  warm  hand-grasp  which  his  brother  gave  him  as  he  poured  forth  his 
confidence  concerning  Susanna. 

The  mystic  chain  that  bound  Rob  to  "  Miss  Wescott "  was  broken 
at  about  this  time  ;  for  what  will  not  unbounded  wealth  effect  ?  He 
went  to  dwell  at  the  mansion-house  in  easy  service,  for,  fully  realizing 
the  gratitude  due  him,  Dr.  Hugh  proves  an  easy  master  indeed,  and 
Katy  is  the  sweetest  and  gentlest  of  mistresses.  There  is  talk,  too,  of 
a  public  school  for  Rob.  If  he  proves  faithful  there  is  a  future 
before  him. 


JOSIAH    ALLEN'S    WIFE'S 


AS    A 


JOSIAH'S    FIVE    HOURS'   BIDE, 


Samantha    at   the    Centennial. 

BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF 

"MY  OPINIONS  AND  BETSEY  BOBBET'S,"  AND    ••  MY  WAYWARD  PARDNER." 


This  book  the  writer  sends  forth  to  the  world,  expecting  it 
will  (as  did  other  martjTs :  John  Rogers  and  etcetery)  tread 
on  the  hot  coals  of  public  opinion  ;  be  briled  on  the  gridiron 
old  bigotry  keeps  to  brile  her  enemies  on ;  be  scalded  by  the 
melted  lead  of  old  custom ;  and  be  burnt  up  on  the  stake  of 
opposition  ;  yet  still,  upheld  by  firm  principle  and  lofty  emo- 
tions, she  is  able  to  say :  "  I  am  happy  in  the  thought." 

^    hind   and,    noble   Artist    ha*   risked    his    fame    by 
drawing  a  few  pictures  for  Ihe  book. 

THIS  VOLUME  CONTAINS  580  PACKS, 
25  Full-Page  and  5O  other  Engravings 

Prices:  In  Fine  English  Cloth,  £2.50  ;  do. do.,  Gilt  fidge,  $3.00; 

Half  Turkey  Morocco,  $4.00. 
The  book  can  be  had  by  addressing 

AMERICAN  PUBLISHING  CO., 
AGENTS  WANTED.  Hartford,  Conn. 


kJ    J.1JJJ   YY 


PARDNER; 


OR  MY  TRIALS  WITH 

JOSIAH   ALLEN,   AMERICA,  THE   WIDDER   BUMP  AND   ETC, 

BY  JOSIAH  ALLEN'S  WIFE. 


THE  BEST  AND  FUNNIEST  BOOK  OF  ALL 


The  immense  satisfaction  that  the  books  "  MY  OPINIONS  AND  BETSEY 
BOBBET'S  "  and  "  SAMANTHA  AT  THE  CENTENNIAL  "  have  given  to  their 
readers,  has  created  a  desire  on  the  part  of  the  public  for  a  third  book  from 
the  pen  of  the  same  author,  which  is  now  presented,  and  which  in  mauy 
respects  surpasses  any  of  the  former  brilliant  efforts  of  the  writer. 


CO 


This  book  by  the  noted  American  Female  Humorist, 
is  rich  and  spicy  throughout ;  brimful  of  wit,  humor,  sharp  sayings  and 
shrewd  common  sense,  while  every  line  in  it  paints  a  moral,  and  teaches  a 
lesson,  it  is  a  continued  story,  most  truthfully  portrayed  of  the  trials, 
anxieties,  and  perplexities  of  every  day  life,  and  like  its  predecessors  strikes 
boldly  at  all  evil  and  wrong  doers,  endeavoring  to  promote  that  which  is 
Right,  Honorable  and  Virtuous  among  all  people.  The  volume  contains 
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